


Cake co.

by toutcequonveut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aromantic Draco Malfoy, Aromantic Harry Potter, Asexual Draco Malfoy, Bakery, Cake, Food, It's Dobby, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Nonbinary Character, Queerplatonic Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Queerplatonic Relationships, Reference to Canonical Character Death, Sexuality Crisis, Unusual Jobs, gratuitous descriptions of food, ish, qpr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toutcequonveut/pseuds/toutcequonveut
Summary: Draco is the ace of cakes!Or: the story of how Draco Malfoy goes from war criminal to baker incredible, makes some unexpected friendships, and learns more about himself along the way. A journey of growth told through cake.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 140
Collections: Harry Potter Ace Fest 2020





	1. Chocolate lava cakes

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: In retaliation to his parents comments after he comes out as asexual, Draco opens a cake shop, and he's great at it. And one day, in comes Harry…
> 
> Dear prompter, this was the second fest where I wasn’t originally planning on joining until I saw this prompt and knew, as someone who loves gratuitous descriptions of food in fic, I had to write it. Thank you for the inspiration and hope you enjoy!
> 
> Infinite thanks to Orange_Coyote for beta-ing and Nearingexistence for sensitivity reading!

The first day Draco steps into the soup kitchen where he will be spending all 5400 of his required community service hours, he is nearly brained by a flying saucepan.

He narrowly dodges it. When he straightens up, it nearly happens again, so this time he stays crouched while he looks around. 

And stares.

He’s never seen a true wix-run kitchen, not really. He hadn’t been allowed in the kitchens when he was younger. There are bowls and cutting boards on every surface, utensils mixing, knives chopping, and pots and pans sailing through the air to their next destination. It’s chaos. It’s incredible.

“Don’t just stand there, unless you want to get beaned again!” snaps an annoyed woman to his left. She is wearing a worn brown apron with “KISS MY ASS” emblazoned boldly on the front. The reason for the apron quickly becomes clear as she is using her wand to chop fruit so quickly that the juices splatter all over her front. Combat boots complete her ensemble, and Draco briefly wonders if he’s been assigned to a culinary warzone.

Quickly, Draco ducks a bowl of beaten eggs and steps closer to her. “Hello,” he begins hesitantly. Internally, he is laughing at himself; how far the proud prince of Slytherin has fallen, to be so timid. Then he remembers that he only escaped Azkaban due to Harry Potter’s beneficence and any lingering pride vanishes. “I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m here to—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the woman barks, and this time there’s no denying it. This witch is  _ American _ . Draco can barely disguise his horror, but disguise it he does. He can’t go around antagonizing his boss for the next two years right off the bat. He snaps to attention as she continues, “Do you know any cooking spells?”

“No,” Draco admits. Maybe if he doesn’t know anything, she’ll let him off easy…

“Fuckin’ typical,” the woman spits, whipping her wand out. A ladle dips into a bowl and starts pouring pancakes on the enormous griddle by the stovetop. “Ministry assholes sending whoever they want here as ‘punishment’. Punishment for who, though? Me!  _ I’m  _ the one who has to deal with all you wimps who don’t know how to cook.”

She appears to have reached a stopping point in her fierce chopping and casts a silent  _ Accio _ . A book comes whizzing off of a high shelf in the back of a kitchen. The witch thrusts it at Draco and turns back to the counter. “Learn this book. I won’t approve your hours or whatever until you can perform a decent Chopping Charm on an onion. Oh, and be ready to serve meals at 7am sharp. That’s something you don’t need any training for, at least.”

Draco’s not so sure about that, but he’d rather pretend he does than ask her any more questions. He takes the book titled  _ Basics of Kitchen Magic _ meekly. Unfortunately, there is one question he  _ has  _ to ask. “What’s your name?” he inquires timidly.

“Speak up!” she barks. “You can’t be a cook if you can’t assert yourself.” A moment’s pause, then, “And the name’s Nelma.”

Draco nods at Nelma and then scampers out of the kitchen to study the book of spells. The faster he learns these, the sooner he can start counting down those 5400 hours.

🍰🍰🍰

The first person Draco serves takes the bowl from him and slams it directly into his face.

Or at least, tries to. A  _ Protego _ shield manifests just before the ceramic would smash into Draco’s skull. He turns and finds that Nelma’s wand is trained right at him, which is an alarming sight.

The would-be assailant also turns to Nelma. “Why are you protecting him, Nelma? This piece of rubbish is why my nan doesn’t have a home! He’s why my niece is dead!”

“You can settle your differences outside of my kitchen, but I have a lot of people to feed and you will  _ not _ get in the way of that, Broderick.” Nelma’s voice is as sturdy as iron. Her gaze sweeps from the fuming Broderick all the way to the end of the line within the building. “You will judge him on his  _ own _ actions  _ now _ , not what or whom he was associated with in the past. Is that  _ clear?” _

It seems she is clear enough. Despite their hate-filled eyes, the crowd’s hunger is their priority. It’s a tense couple hours, but Draco manages to get through it without getting spit on once. When the last person exits the building, Draco heaves a huge sigh and turns to Nelma. “I want to formally thank y—”

“Don’t thank me, if it were up to my baser instincts I’d have thrown you out of my kitchen hours ago. It’s hard to have someone in here who let a werewolf that likes to eat  _ children _ into the school my grandkids go to.”

Draco stops with his mouth wide open at the interruption. After a second, his throat remembers how to form words again. “Then, why—”

“Because I believe in change.” Nelma grabs a rag that had been doing a perfectly serviceable job scrubbing the counter and begins to do it herself, arm muscles bulging as she works out her frustrations on the wooden surface. “I believe you can be a better person and that’s why you were sent here and not sent to that wretched prison like the other Death Eaters. You want to thank me? Do it by becoming a better person. Then don’t let anyone,  _ ever _ , turn around that person you’ve decided to be. According to what the papers said about your trial, you became a criminal because someone whispered in your ear since you were young that this is how you should act. You’re here now because society and the law says that’s not how you should act. You want me to sign your hours? Show me that you’ve  _ changed _ , and that no one else can make you change who  _ you  _ are.”

Draco stares at her. He can’t come up with any response because his brain is whirling with all that Nelma’s said.

It turns out he doesn’t need to reply. Nelma whips the rag over her shoulder and announces, “I’m going out on my break. You better have learned at least eight of those kitchen spells by the time I come back.”

Draco picks up the cooking textbook and begins to read. 

🍰🍰🍰

“What the hell are you doing?” Nelma demands. 

It’s 10am, meaning lunch preparations are in full swing. Draco has been given the responsibility of making tomato sauce. In his opinion, it’s a bit soon for that much, given that he barely passed the onion chopping exam two days ago. 

“Looking up a recipe?” Draco answers.

“Is that a question or an answer?” Nelma prompts, deceptively calm.

“I'm looking up a recipe!” Draco answers with conviction. He’s learned that if he doesn’t reply  _ with conviction _ , Nelma will keep on asking the question louder and louder. A few days ago, he’s pretty sure she cast a Sonorus at herself just to be sure her volume was increasing.

“Well,  _ why  _ are you looking up a recipe? It’s tomato sauce!”

“Because I don’t know how to make it.” Draco thinks he stated that one adequately.

“Tomato sauce isn’t something you  _ think _ . It’s something you  _ feel!”  _ Nelma comes stomping over. “Watch!”

Draco had just gathered all the ingredients and had been about to look for amounts. Now, Nelma is using her wand to lift  _ some  _ carrots,  _ some  _ celery,  _ some  _ onions, and  _ some  _ olive oil from their respective bowls into a large frying pan. While they sizzle fragrantly, she points at the next few ingredients and says, “Garlic. A lot of it. Add it once the stuff on the pan is soft. Diced cherry tomatoes and basil. For this much aromatics, you’ll want about twice as many of the tomatoes as you’ve got here. Then some tomato paste after that. No, put down that measuring cup! Just put in enough until it feels like it’s thick enough. Salt and pepper, not too much of either. Then lower the heat and let all that flavor stew. Once it’s done, we’ll use a Purée charm to make it smooth. And don’t forget to stir!”

Draco nods and hopes he’s retained all that. Initially, he’d thought cooking must be like potions, and he was always decent in that class. Instead, it seems that the amounts are made up and the ingredient lists don’t matter. The book hadn’t said anything about cherry tomatoes! In truth, he’s more than a little overwhelmed and kind of wishes he could cry, but that’s not the kind of salt Nelma wants in her sauce. He grabs a wooden spoon and starts stirring the pan.

An hour later, Draco stares into the pan in dismay. 

“I smell  _ sadness  _ over there,” Nelma calls out. “What’s going on?”

“I… I messed up. I’m… we can’t serve this. It’s my fault.” The sizable ball of guilt he’s been carrying around inside him ever since Nelma’s lecture on his first day grows a tiny bit bigger. Draco’s first days in the kitchen had been mishap after mishap and contributed to at least half the size of that guilt (the other had been his usual guilt over becoming a Death Eater and all the baggage that comes with it). Those accidents had always been minor side dishes or prep work, though. This, though… this tomato sauce is the basis for today’s meal.

As Nelma crosses the last few steps to his corner of the kitchen, he points miserably at the pan with his wooden spoon. The sauce has dried up into a concentrated paste. Furthermore, the bottom is completely black. Draco thought he’d been vigilant about stirring, but also the book had said not to stir too often so as to give the food time to cook in the pan. 

Nelma looks from the pan to Draco’s face. “What have I told you about being assertive?” she admonishes in a gentle voice.

Draco’s fear of retribution from the terrifying force of nature that is Nelma turns to confusion. She’s never sounded so gentle in all the days he’s been coming here. “To… be it?” Nelma frowns a little, and Draco amends, “You can’t be a good cook if you can’t assert yourself.”

“Exactly,” Nelma responds, still eerily gently. “So. You made a mistake and owned it. That’s good. Are you sorry for it?”

Draco nods. “I’m… sorry for it.” He’s not sure he’s ever said that sentence in his life. He thinks maybe he should try and say it more often. It feels oddly freeing to apologize.

Nelma doesn’t seem to think so; she huffs impatiently. “Sorry won’t fix the problem.” Ah, there’s a bit of the Nelma he knows. “But it’s the first step. The next step is: what do you want to do to  _ solve  _ the problem? Once you’ve come to that decision, you  _ stick  _ to it. If you consider all those things, you can be confident in your choices and actions and never doubt that you’re doing the right thing.”

Draco glances at the pan, but he already knows it’s unsalvageable. In the first place, there’s not nearly enough in there to serve even two people, let alone the 30 or so regulars they have. “This… isn’t enough to feed the people who come here. So something else needs to be made.” A thought strikes him, something simple and fast that can still work with the ingredients they have left. “Maybe oglio e aglio?”

“Your rich kid is showing,” Nelma mutters.

“I mean, olive oil and garlic pasta. And we could, er, serve the rest of the diced cherry tomatoes alongside it? Call it… deconstructed.”

“Who cares what you call it? It’s food.” Nelma claps her hands. “Right, let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to do and no time to waste.”

Draco snaps to attention and casts spells to start crushing and chopping garlic. Nothing has externally changed, but he thinks he might understand how serving in this community kitchen is supposed to help him become a better person.

🍰🍰🍰

“Why are you  _ still  _ measuring? It’s a salad! A salad you’ve made at least four times this month!”

“But I want it to taste  _ consistent _ !” Draco insists. 

Nelma summons the balsamic vinegar right out of his hands. “If you want to be so exact, go bake something,” she says snidely. “I’ll be over here making  _ real  _ food.”

“You know what, maybe I will!” Draco shoots back. Two and a half months in, he’s absorbed Nelma’s mindset enough to give retorts to her criticisms. He’s beginning to learn what she means by speaking with conviction. It’s similar to how he used to act back in Hogwarts, with the exceptions that his father is in Azkaban instead of on the Board of Governors, and if he gets snooty to Nelma then she will not hesitate to give as good as she gets. Plus, she can and will make him chop onions the rest of the day. Draco  _ hates  _ chopping onions.

Knowing that the salad is the last thing to do and Nelma is quite frankly fine on her own and has been for years, Draco sets up the plates and utensils to streamline serving before walking over to the bookshelf. He selects a book titled simply  _ Desserts _ . It’s less worn than the others, and based on Nelma’s attitude earlier, he thinks she probably doesn’t have much luck with baking. He realizes that he’s never actually seen a dessert in the regular meals they serve. Occasionally, some shop or do-gooder will donate a bucketload of baked goods that they’ll add to what they’ve cooked for the day, but otherwise there are no sweets to be found in Nelma’s kitchen.

The pictures in the book are mouthwatering. Draco’s eye is particularly attracted to a moving photo of French chocolate lava cakes. A spoon descends and pulls away part of the cake, allowing molten chocolate to pour out of the center, over and over. The instructions seem fairly straightforward too. A quick scan of the cupboard shows that they don’t have enough of the required ingredients, but if there’s something that hasn’t been taken away from Draco’s family, it’s their bottomless pockets. Seriously, the number of offshore accounts the Malfoy family possesses is borderline illegal. Actually, it might be literally illegal, but that’s not information Draco is privy to until he takes over as his father’s heir.

The point is, he can fill out one of the Owl-order grocery forms Nelma uses for a bulk order of flour, sugar, butter, slabs of dark chocolate, and eggs, and he can also pay for it with his own money. 

By the time lunch service is over, Draco’s delivery is lying neatly outside the back door. He collects it and calls to Nelma, “I’m going to make chocolate cake for tonight.”

“Ha! Good luck with that!” Nelma cackles. “I’ll be over here working on the shepherd’s pies when you want to come crying to mama.”

Draco ignores her, knowing she’s just teasing him. He carefully reads the recipe twice, then casts a spell learned from the  _ Basics of Kitchen Magic _ that covers the  _ Desserts _ book in a protective shield and makes it follow him around so he can easily reference it. 

He chops chocolate and weighs ingredients, making sure everything is set out and ready to be added as he needs it. First, he melts the chocolate and butter together over low heat, stirring frequently. When the chocolate is a smooth liquid, he puts it into a bowl to cool to room temperature. He lights the oven, then comes back to add eggs to the chocolate, whisking them in thoroughly. In goes the sugar, then the flour, and then Draco greases up some loaf tins and pours in the mixture. He also pours a little batter in a tiny baking tin so he can test his success.

The kitchen smells fantastic as the cakes bake. He checks on them four times in the last few minutes of baking, and finally the edges start peeling away in the way that signifies doneness. Eagerly, Draco removes the loaf tins as well as his tiny test bake.

“Nelma!” he crows. “Come over here!”

The older witch casts a Stasis charm on her boiled potatoes and ambles over. “What’ve you got, then?” she inquires.

“I present to you moelleux au chocolat, or chocolate lava cake as us English-speakers would call it.” Dramatically, Draco takes a knife and slices open the little cake with a flourish. Molten chocolate spills out in a cloud of steam, releasing the rich scent of chocolate in a picturesque moment. Draco is so excited he nearly drops the knife. He had been pretty sure of himself, but he still hadn’t expected to attain such success on his first try! 

Nelma summons a spoon and scoops up a bite. Her eyes close, and Draco is sure he sees an almost-smile before it disappears just as quickly. She finishes chewing and swallows, then turns away to go back to her work. 

“Well?” she snaps. “Hurry up and put a Stasis on it! You don’t want to feed the people cold cake, do you? Who ever heard of cold lava!” 

Draco allows himself a wide grin as he rushes to do as she says. Nelma would never let her kitchen serve subpar food to people who only have these meals from a community kitchen to look forward to. His first attempt is victorious.

🍰🍰🍰

Draco takes it upon himself to make desserts every weekend. He funds the ingredients himself, so it’s not like anyone could accuse him of embezzlement or whatever. Nelma is content to sign him off so long as he can prove he learned something.

Given such freedom, Draco quickly finds that he strongly prefers cakes. They don’t hurt him, unlike the extremely finicky pastries he loves to eat but hates to make, as it turns out. 

At one point, he tries to use a spell to speed up the process on a slab of puff pastry and the dough actually rises up and slaps him across the face before flying off and living on the shelf of cookbooks in the corner of the kitchen. Worse, because the pastry dough was vaguely duck-shaped, Nelma starts calling Draco “Ducky” after that. Additionally, she names the duck “Dragon” because who is the  _ real  _ tough one out of the two of them?

Really, it’s no contest.

🍰🍰🍰

Two years and one month after he started at Nelma’s kitchen, Draco completes his required community service hours. He still intends to volunteer there, but Nelma points out, “You’re not the only kid who needs a bit of culinary-based rehabilitation, Ducky. You’ve got to let me teach others about the world.”

It’s logical, but that doesn’t stop Draco from feeling sad about the place where he spent the past two years of his life and learned how to live with himself as a person. He bids a final farewell to Dragon in the corner and Apparates home.

Four weeks later, Lucius Malfoy returns to Malfoy Manor, released to house arrest from his Azkaban life sentence due to “good behavior” (and an obscene amount of gold). 

Truthfully, Draco is very annoyed at this development. On the one hand, this is his  _ father, _ but on the other hand… the new set of morals he cultivated in Nelma’s kitchen aren’t suitable for putting up with his father’s superiority complex anymore. The only solution is to get out of the house, so Draco starts looking for jobs.

It doesn’t take long at all for his father to find him out, and Lucius is  _ not pleased _ .

“What Malfoy in the course of history has ever worked!” Lucius rants. 

“Prudence Malfoy, in the 1930s, as a Healer,” Draco responds promptly.

Based on the puffed-up expression of rage Lucius puts on, that’s not what he wanted to hear. Oh well.

He points a finger dangerously at Draco. “What you really need, son, is a marriage. Preferably within the year. Who knows how long my contacts are going to remember the hold I have over them?”

Privately, Draco thinks that those contacts probably shriveled up in the two years Lucius has been in Azkaban. It’s a very different world these days, not that his father would know.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Draco, don’t you?” his mother chimes in. “A marriage is just the thing we need to bring things back to normal. I’ll start writing to my friends immediately.”

“I’m glad someone in this household can still see sense,” Lucius agrees. “I shall also adjourn to do the same. Do  _ not _ squander this opportunity, Draco.” 

When both his parents have left the room, Draco drops his head in his hands and sighs deeply. He can’t imagine anything more onerous than going on  _ dates _ for the purpose of finding a  _ spouse _ with whom he’ll have to have  _ sex _ . A feeling that has lay long repressed within Draco ever since the war started ramping up begins to grow.

His fifth year at Hogwarts was the last truly “normal” year Draco had had. It was also the year he’d made the mistake of dating both Blaise  _ and _ Pansy (not at the same time). The experience hadn’t been so bad for him except for the part where he learned he was a horrible boyfriend because he just  _ doesn’t get it. _ He’d thought that if he just gave relationships a try, the hearts and rainbows would finally hit him over the head like a Beater’s Bat, but instead he just disappointed both his friends.

One particular memory sticks out in his memory. Sitting in the common room with Blaise and Pansy on either side of him, ranting to each other:

“Not a romantic bone in his body!” 

“He doesn’t understand the concept of flowers or chocolate as a special occasion and not just a gift between chums.”

“Precisely, dating means that your date is more than just friends, you can’t just constantly bum off to go hang out with other friends, it’s about commitment to wanting to be together as one unit.” 

“Not to mention the total lack of interest elsewhere, if you know what I’m saying.”

“If it involves trying to make out and getting pushed down a stairwell, I think I catch your drift.”

“I was more thinking along the lines of a low-cut top and no reaction, personally.”

“Makes you feel a little one-sided, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly Blaise, just what I was saying. Say, do you want to go to Hogsmeade together next Saturday?”

“You’ve got yourself a date, love.”

Blaise and Pansy are still going strong, last he’s heard. Then again, that isn’t recent news because immediately after the war the two of them scurried off to live with Blaise’s mother’s current husband in Morocco. The thought of being abandoned still tickles sourly at Draco, but he can’t blame anyone for wanting to escape after the war. Besides, it’s still awkward to think that two of his exes are happier dating each other than either was with him.

Well, if he’s being optimistic, maybe one of the matches his parents find him will click better and he’ll finally unlock the mysteries of romance. Draco’s probably just a late bloomer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Recipe for chocolate lava cake ](https://www.laylita.com/recipes/moelleux-molten-chocolate-cake/)


	2. White chocolate cheesecake

Draco returns from his date with Astoria Greengrass with a sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach. The way she looked at him with such expectations was incredibly uncomfortable. She’d confessed right at the start that she’d always had a bit of a crush on him through school, which, hello? It’s not exactly a compliment to tell a reformed war criminal that you liked him when he was idolizing megalomaniacs? 

And then she’d spent the whole date hanging off his every word which was downright uncomfortable. Draco simply can’t understand it. If it were  _ him, _ he would  _ never _ allow himself to get so brainless just because of a crush or whatever. They had visited an old manor that was converted into a Magical Art Museum because of Astoria’s purported interest in art history, and all of their history-related discussions had been excellent. Draco was really beginning to think they could make this work until Astoria had grabbed his hand and tugged him towards an exhibit titled “Lovers Through the Ages”. What followed was the most boring hour of Draco’s life while Astoria sighed over the emotional depictions and, on occasion, scandalously sultry scenes. Draco feels like he’s missing something because the idea of someone holding his hands in the rain and confessing undying love to him just sounds uncomfortable and a good way of coming down with some kind of illness. The continuation of that painting involves the same subjects but artfully lacking clothes and rolling around on the ground. Draco wrinkles his nose in discomfort imagining mud getting down  _ there _ . How could  _ that _ possibly be pleasurable?

Unfortunately, after that exhibit it was abundantly clear that Astoria and Draco simply didn’t see eye to eye. Draco left with the promise that he could be friends, but he simply isn’t interested in pursuing her as a marriage partner. Besides, he’s under no illusions that the Malfoy name would elevate the Greengrass’s, so really, she’s not losing out on anything.

He didn’t expect tears to well in her eyes and for her to Apparate straight out of the wards of the museum, causing the owner to run frantically over and ask demanding questions to which Draco had no answers. 

🍰🍰🍰

Draco has always thought that every person contains some passion that can make even the seemingly dullest person light up. It’s just a matter of discovering what the spark was. For instance, for all that people thought they were mute thugs, Vince is—was—the most knowledgeable and passionate defender of the Chudley Cannons. Greg has an enormous collection of wix currency through the ages and could go on and on in detail about the history of minting coins. Well, he could if he hadn’t had his wand snapped and been banished from the magical world for his part in the war. Draco had tried to do something for him but ultimately, Greg had slipped through the cracks and is impossible to contact. 

The point is, Draco knows that there are many layers to people and it’s often a matter of just finding the key to unlock a person’s favorite subject. However, he hadn’t accounted for Miles Bletchley. He’d been a year ahead of Draco in Hogwarts and obtained a Ministry job in the Archives. His job is so steady and slow-paced that Draco thinks he probably didn’t even notice the war happening amidst the routine of wake up, clock in, work for nine hours, clock out. Draco truly hadn’t realized that anyone could possibly be so incredibly boring in every aspect of their life. Nothing seems to make him react, and if Draco tries to carry the conversation, Miles’s responses are limited to “huh?” and “what?” and “hm”.

It’s absolutely maddening. Draco even tries expressing an anti-Muggle opinion followed immediately by a pro-Muggle one only to hear the exact same reply to both. If Draco can’t even conduct a conversation with this man, how is he supposed to bear being  _ married _ to the fellow? No, Miles Bletchley is not The One for Draco. He’ll just have to keep trying.

🍰🍰🍰

Harper Bole was one year below Draco in Hogwarts. Harper Bole talks very fast. Harper Bole is the most extreme person that has ever lived. 

Draco’s honestly a little frightened of associating with Harper Bole because he’ll almost certainly get roped into his hobbies that include broom marathons (race to see who can fly 500 miles fastest!), Leviosa jumping (jump off a cliff and let your friends catch you! Hopefully they’ve got good timing!), and setting up camp on a frozen tundra  _ without a wand _ . Not to mention “white-water rafting” and “parkour”, whatever those are.

Draco is perfectly content to live in a house, thank you very much. He didn’t avoid an Azkaban sentence just to subject himself willingly to similar or worse conditions  _ for fun _ . Just being in Harper’s presence for ten minutes is enough to make Draco feel dizzy. He’s simply too big a personality for Draco, which, actually...

“If I may make a suggestion?” Draco interrupts one of Harper’s tales of swimming in the Arctic Sea with only a measly Warming Charm to protect him. “I’m sorry to say a partnership wouldn’t work between us, but I believe I know just the person to properly appreciate your lifestyle and would always be ready to listen to you. Do you know Miles Bletchley?”

🍰🍰🍰

Cassandra Vaisey, the younger sister of one of the older students on the Slytherin Quidditch team, won’t stop glaring at Draco through the entirety of their date. Neither will she admit that there’s anything wrong when he asks, though. 

Eventually, he tells her that he won’t utter another word until she spits it out, and then,  _ oh Merlin _ spit it out she does.

It turns out that being a prominent and recognizable face in a war that disrupts someone’s OWL year is an offense punishable by eternal resentment if not death. 

As any good Slytherin, Cassandra possesses plenty of ambition, but circumstances being what they are, her placement in Slytherin house coupled with her inability to study properly with war waging through the castle tanked her results. The ashes of her career aspirations are scattered on the steps of Hogwarts alongside other, more literal ashes.

Draco tries to defend himself that the Ministry allows OWL retakes, especially given the situation at the time, but before he can even finish his sentence, Cassandra stands and slaps him across the face. 

Okay, so a second date with her would probably be a bad idea, right? 

🍰🍰🍰

Draco had always been friendly with Adrian Pucey when they were in school together. That hasn’t changed. They pick back up right where they left off, and it’s like no time has passed at all since those easy days in Slytherin. Draco spends a very pleasant evening with Adrian at a very exclusive restaurant as they talk about everything and nothing. Over the most divine white chocolate cheesecake, Draco thinks that he could even get used to this. It’s just dinner and dessert with a friend, how nice is that? They can just enjoy each other’s company, and they don’t  _ need  _ to kiss. Still, Draco’s been hard at work studying romance books. He’s certain that this time he’s got it, this must be what romance feels like. Strangely, it doesn’t feel all that different from those times back in Hogwarts hanging out with Theo and Blaise before fifth year.

When he leans in for a goodnight kiss on the cheek, though, Adrian stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Draco…” he starts, then stops.

“Yes?” Draco asks hopefully.

“I’m just not into you that way. We have a lot in common and I feel that we could be good friends, but I could never see us as more than friends. I don’t think you feel that way about me, either.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t being married just living with a good friend?” Draco’s voice goes higher and higher as he goes on. “If you don’t like kissing, we don’t have to do that either. I’m not best fond of it myself, but Pansy always complained if I didn’t, and all the books recommended—”

Adrian sets a finger against Draco’s lips, laughing slightly. “Did you read books to help you prepare to date?” 

“Um. Yes?”

Adrian’s laughter quiets into a sad smile. “Draco, marriage isn’t just living with a good friend. We’re the new generation of Purebloods. I want to be  _ in love  _ with my partner.”

If anything, that makes Draco panic more. “I can fall in love! Just give me some time!”  _ Please _ , he thinks,  _ don’t make me go back to Miles Bletchley _ . Wait, last he heard Miles Bletchley and Harper Bole had announced their engagement and were moving in together. That would leave… Cassandra Vaisey, who would like nothing more than to see him hanged, which is also not an appealing choice.

“Draco,” Adrian admonishes. “That’s not how love works. I want a real romance, the kind that takes my breath away, the kind that makes my heart flutter and makes me act stupid because of how much I want to be with them forever. I want to experience all that and get married to that person and create a life with them and… I just don’t feel that spark with you.”

“Wait.” Draco is confused. “You’ve actually  _ felt _ a spark, then? It’s not just a turn of phrase?”

Adrian ruffles his hair, smiling ruefully. “You’ve always had such a sense of humor, Draco. Be well.”

He Apparates away. Draco Apparates home too and lies in bed with thoughts whirling through his brain all night.

🍰🍰🍰

Draco doesn’t have much desire to continue going on dates, but his mother’s old tea group friend’s sister’s husband’s underling’s neighbor’s uncle’s granddaughter is not someone he can just turn down. As Narcissa put it, the Malfoy parents are reaching the end of their list of contacts for suitable marriage partners. Draco really doesn’t have much choice in the matter. At the same time that he doesn’t want to disappoint his mother, though, he’s also beginning to get sick of dates that go nowhere. 

Gavenia Urquhart doesn’t seem to despise him, at least. She was three years under him in Hogwarts and thus doesn’t bear the same grudge against him as Cassandra Vaisey for disrupting her career ambitions. Draco immediately knows that she won’t have him though.

Throughout their date, she recounts her family’s generations-long efforts to revitalize the oppressed culture of the Scots in a thick brogue. The Urquharts even collaborate with the Muggles in their area, bound together by their unified desire to push against English colonialism. 

The Malfoys, on the contrary, emigrated from France so many generations ago that aside from their name, no one would mistake them as anything but English. Draco is quite content with England, actually. Well, he had been, anyway. By the end of their date, Draco is aghast at the history he’s inadvertently part of and that his ancestors contributed to. Even so, he also confesses that he and Gavenia would not suit each other. Adrian’s sad smile and murmuring about a “spark” or whatever still whirl through his mind every night. Draco assures her he would be happy to contribute to the Urquharts’ efforts in light of what she’s taught him, though. 

He also gives her Cassandra Vaisey’s name. Draco can already tell Gavenia is going to make waves in the world, and she could use someone as ambitious as Cassandra on her team. He does make sure to caution her multiple times not to bring up Draco’s name whatsoever, though.

Gavenia leaves with a skip in her step, and Draco is still stuck with no marriage partner.

🍰🍰🍰

No one is sure why Xenophilius Lovegood even answers Lucius’s request to open marriage discussions between Draco and Luna. In fact, Draco is fairly sure that Xenophilius himself doesn’t know why. He resigns himself to an incredibly awkward “date” with a former prisoner of the Malfoy dungeons.

He meets her at a botanical garden of magical plants and immediately has a panic attack. 

Luna is the first person Draco has seen since the war that he harmed with his own wand, and she’s just sitting there and not spitting on him. It had been one thing to serve the patrons of Nelma’s kitchen where sometimes even those hungry people would refuse to eat food touched by Draco’s hand. Draco had learned that the only thing he could do was try to prove he was better by  _ becoming _ someone who didn’t subscribe to the Dark Lord’s ideologies. Even then, a part of Draco’s brain could feel indignant because what did these people know of the truth of living with the Dark Lord as a housemate? 

Luna is different. Draco cast the Cruciatus on her directly, and even if he tried to sneak her fresh food now and then, it pales in comparison to what  _ he  _ did,  _ himself _ . 

The next thing he knows, he’s sitting on a bench out of sight while Luna is counting with his breaths. When she notices that he’s looking at her, she asks, “Are you feeling more present?”

Draco nods. He’s not sure what’s the right answer, honestly.

“That’s good. Well—”

“I’m sorry!” he blurts. It’s all Draco can do to keep from yelling it to the heavens. Since he saw her, his brain has been filled with thoughts of how he could apologize to her, and it’s impossible to contain himself a second longer. The small part of his brain that’s stuck in the past balks at how easily apologies fall from his lips now. “I cannot begin to apologize enough for what you went through in my family’s home, what I personally did to you, and I didn’t mean it, not really, but I was scared and—fuck, this isn’t about me. I’m so sorry for hurting you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me but I hope that you’ll understand that I am truly sincerely sorry for my actions.”

Luna looks at him sideways. “Are you finished?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Okay, I just wanted to be sure.” She takes a deep breath. “Honestly, I owe you my own apology.”

Draco is speechless. What? How? Why? Wherewhenhowwho—

“I’m here under false pretenses. I have no intention of marrying you because I’m quite firmly a lesbian, you see.”

“But—I thought—wasn’t it your father who signed the letter? Why would he agree for you to meet me if you’re gay?”

“Oh, Daddy hasn’t answered any of his own mail for ages. I handle all the writing now while he goes on the expeditions. I’m very good at using multiple Dicta-Quills at once.”

That’s fascinating in its own right, but… “ _ Why _ would you  _ want  _ to meet with me then?”

“For my own closure.” Luna’s legs start kicking restlessly back and forth, and she raises her eyes to the sky. “I don’t like being sad, so I did my best to not think of those bad times, but seeing your father’s letter made the feelings come back. So I figured I should come so I could resolve the problems. It helps that you seem to be a different person from the one who listened to Bellatrix’s orders to torture me.”

There’s not much to say to that either. How did Draco never realize that the key to preventing others from talking was to insert one (1) Luna Lovegood into any conversation? Simultaneously, he’s relieved to pass the very low bar of not-being-hated-by-Luna Lovegood. Draco silently sends thanks to Nelma for her hard work outwardly berating him and subtly changing him for the better.

Thinking of Nelma, Draco finally remembers the original purpose of this outing. He stands on shaky legs and says, “I appreciate your honesty. Since you’ve no intention of marrying me, should we go our separate ways now?” 

His relief at not having to navigate a romantic battlefield is probably a bit too evident because Luna slowly raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t we go look around while we’re here?” she responds, deceptively casual. “I’d like to ask you a few questions while we’re at it.”

Draco agrees. Now that his apology and the danger of having to pretend to want to get married are out of the way, he feels much lighter. 

He follows after Luna, listening to her talk about creatures he’s never heard of that like to live in the rare plants of the botanical gardens. Twenty minutes in, without changing her tone of voice at all, she asks, “Have you ever felt any kind of romantic attraction?”

Draco sputters. “What?” he demands, secretly buying time while his brain scrambles for excuses. Then he realizes that he’s specifically looking for  _ excuses _ , not explanations, and his mind abruptly grinds to a halt.

Blissfully unaware of the train wreck she’s caused in Draco’s skull, Luna expounds. “It’s just that you seemed completely unperturbed that I lied about wanting to marry you. When I told you I was gay, you didn’t answer in kind—not that you should have to out yourself, and I’m not asking you to now—but I am curious if the cause is a matter of preference or lack of attraction whatsoever.”

“I… I don’t know how to answer your questions,” Draco stammers, half his brain occupied because  _ here _ is an explanation for his seeming inability to understand what his partners want from him and his total lack of the so-called ‘better than friends’ and ‘seeing you makes me want to look down your shirt’ feelings.  _ Could _ that be him? 

Luna gives him that sideways glance again, then stops in the middle of the path and announces, “I’d like to continue our date at a bookstore.”

Draco stutters. “That’s unnecessary, we don’t need to continue to pretend we’re on a date—” but Luna has already grabbed his hand and walked out. 

They don’t go to Flourish and Blotts like Draco expected. Instead, Luna takes him to a tiny little shop in one of the other magical plazas in London. The shopfront blends in perfectly with the architecture of the surrounding buildings except for the fact that the door is painted in bold rainbow stripes. Large, curly script on the display window declares that the store is called Wilde Wordes. 

Luna leads Draco in by his wrist, and the jingle of the bell on the door prompts the shopkeep at the front to look up. The sunlight filtering through the window reflects off a large button on the person’s cardigan stating **THEY/THEM**. An undercut offsets their long dark brown hair that is twisted into a bun with their wand sticking through it. Draco isn’t surprised that Luna knows this person; the two of them seem to share a similar sense of aesthetic. Draco’s unsure if he’s ever seen _anyone_ else hold their hairstyle in place using their wand before, and now there are two of them in the same location. It’s making Draco feel very outnumbered.

“Draco, this is Minh. Minh, could you find the intro book? The same one I asked for a couple months ago.”

Minh smiles ruefully. “Luna, why would you expect me to remember what you bought a few months ago?”

Luna tilts her head beguilingly. “Do you remember it though?”

They chuckle. “Yes, of course I do.”

“Then there’s no worry.” Luna releases Draco’s wrist and turns to him. “Why don’t you go look around until they’re back?”

Draco is very confused at how his date has devolved into this, but he agrees nonetheless. It takes him less than five seconds to realize that this isn’t just a regular bookstore; it’s a queer bookstore. He doesn’t have much more time to look around because soon Luna sets Draco down in one of the squooshy armchairs with a slim book titled  _ Gender and Sexuality: a primer _ and tells him to get reading.

She then sits up at the front chatting with Minh, and when Draco says he’d like to buy the book, she waves her hand at him. “I’ve already settled it,” she says. “Did you learn anything?”

“Yes, quite a bit. I think… I’d like to go home and reflect on some things.” He stands formally and bows. “Thank you very much for your company this afternoon, Luna. I look forward to seeing you another time.” 

“Shall chance cross our paths so serendipitously in times to come,” Luna responds immediately. “I hope to hear from you again.”

The exchange is a textbook platonic sendoff, one of the essential Pureblood greetings that children learn at five years old so as not to offend friends. Draco lets out the last breath he’d been holding. He’s absolutely certain now that Luna has no romantic interest in him. His fingers tighten lightly on the book in his hand. Maybe… his relief is related to that passage he skimmed over in the shop, the one that made him snap the book shut and glance around furtively because it felt too  _ real _ and he felt like he’d been caught naked by the impartial text of a primer.

Yes, this was definitely something he needed to mull over. Draco Apparated directly to his bedroom and flopped into bed to begin the introspection.

🍰🍰🍰

_ Aromantic: having little or no romantic feeling toward others; experiencing little or no romantic desire or attraction _

_ Asexual: not having sexual feelings toward others; not experiencing sexual desire or attraction _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitions for asexual and aromantic are from Merriam-Webster


	3. Chrysanthemum and lychee tea

Of course, Draco was never going to be able to get away with a calm statement that he would no longer agree to any marriage meetings.

“You are single-handedly and intentionally taking the already tarnished Malfoy name and pushing it deeper into the mud!”

Draco sullenly thinks that it’s rather convenient for his father to forget whose fault it is that the Malfoy name is “already tarnished”.

“Father, I won’t accept any more requests. I’m not going to get married.” His piece said, Draco storms out of the room and goes to the room where his mother is sitting for tea.

“Hello, dear,” Narcissa greets. Despite the slight lines between her eyebrows that have appeared ever since Lucius has declared that Draco must get married, she looks radiant. Draco knows that his mother is wholly in love with his father. No matter his vices, Narcissa could not stand to be apart from him. The past two-and-a-half years were rough in terms of her mental health, and Draco’s not certain that she would stand up for him rather than bask in Lucius’s presence alongside her once more.

Indeed, Narcissa urges him to keep trying the marriage meetings, just to keep the peace between their family. “We just want the best for you, darling. You don't even  _ have  _ to get married now, but is it so hard to just go on some dates to appease your father?” She takes a sip of her tea, eyes boring into his own. They have the same eyes, he and his mother, something the two of them share that Lucius doesn’t. 

Draco spins on his heel and marches to his room. Clearly, the connection between mother and son pales in comparison to that of husband and wife in the Malfoy family.

After all they’ve gone through, all the suffering that the Dark Lord had put them through, his parents want to go back to the way things were? They’re delusional! No one is making them do this, and if they truly loved him then they wouldn’t keep pushing him after he said he wouldn’t put up with it anymore.

Fed up, Draco firms his lips and makes a decision. Tomorrow morning at breakfast, he will come out to his parents as aromantic and asexual.

🍰🍰🍰

It doesn’t go well.

“Is this some form of infantile excuse to cover up that you’re having an affair with some Mudblood?” Lucius growls.

“I will not tolerate that sort of language!” Draco snaps back. He thinks Nelma would be proud at how he’s so assertive he can even stand up to his father now. Nice. “Also, if you had been listening at all, you would be aware that what I said means I won’t be sleeping around with anyone, nor will I be dating.”

Narcissa cuts in, face beautiful and apologetic. “Draco, please, won’t you consider just marrying for show? Even if you say you don’t feel romance or… carnal attractions to anyone, this sort of arrangement has been done for generations. Just look at your father and myself. I never felt attraction to anyone before I married him, and see how happy we’ve turned out?”

Draco looks at them as instructed. He sees a desperate woman clinging to a tattered illusion from a past before he was even born. He sees a man desperate to believe that he is relevant and respected even though he’s the furthest thing from it.

Narcissa continues, “Perhaps you and your father can agree on a compromise: you will marry someone, and your father will accept your choice no matter the… circumstances of their birth.”

Lucius agrees, “I suppose that is acceptable. After all, the Malfoy name is greater than any personal… foibles or aggrievances. Very well. Even if it is a M—uggleborn, I will accept your marital partner. Perhaps that vile Granger girl? If nothing else, she could at least raise our status in the political world.” __

_ But not the Pureblood circles _ , is the addition everyone hears but he does not say.

By now, Draco’s fingernails have carved half-moons into his palms. At Lucius’s last proclamation, he bursts, “Father, Mother, you’re  _ not listening! _ I didn’t agree to get married to anyone, in fact!” He begins to pace wildly, ranting, “I do not  _ experience  _ romantic or sexual attraction, so marriage will  _ not  _ be in my future.” He turns and pleads to his parents’ faces. “When I was young, you told me that you would support me even if I decided to marry a man. You told me that there were magical workarounds to inheritance so that I could ensure any partner and child would fully be a Malfoy. You’ve been introducing me to both men and women in your marriage contracts. Why will you not support me now?”

Narcissa is the one to reply, “Oh, Draco, of course we support you, but don’t you think this is a bit drastic? You simply haven’t found the right person yet—”

_ “THERE IS NO RIGHT PERSON!” _

“Draco! Cease this nonsense at once! You  _ will  _ marry someone and if you continue on with this drivel about being some kind of sexual anomaly then we will remove the matter of choice for you!” Lucius roars.

“I said I am  _ asexual  _ and  _ aromantic _ .” Draco enunciates.

“If you keep talking like that then you will be  _ nameless _ ,” Lucius hisses. 

Draco realizes his meaning with cold clarity: Lucius Malfoy is threatening to disinherit his son. A chill sweeps through him. “Fine,” he hears himself say. He turns on his heel and strides out the door, ignoring his mother calling after him.

With only his wand and the clothes on his back, Draco leaves Malfoy Manor for the last time.

🍰🍰🍰

Of course, when one storms out with no intention of returning, the immediate next problem is where to storm  _ to.  _ Fortunately, there’s one person that he knows can take anything in stride.

He arrives on Luna’s doorstep and tells her he’s run away from home.

Luna looks him over, still peeking around the edge of the door at him. Draco knows he’s disheveled. He’d dressed up a little, his nice robes a set of armor against what he thought was going to be just a regular argument with his parents and not his disinheritance. In contrast to the fine robes, the boots he’d slipped on are everyday walking boots, worn but comfortable. His hair is mussed from haphazardly Apparating all over the countryside trying to remember the exact coordinates for the Lovegood home (Luna’s descriptions, it turns out, are different from how most wix deliver Apparition coordinates), and he’s holding his wand in his hand because he hadn’t had the foresight to grab his wand holster.

Luna takes in Draco’s whole appearance silently. After a moment of quiet squirming, during which Draco is about to turn away and go find a hole to hide in for the next, oh, 83 years or so, Luna speaks. “Your Wrackspurts seem like you could use a good cup of tea. Let’s go.”

Without another word, she steps out fully from behind the door. Draco barely has time to shout, “What.” By that point, Luna’s already grabbed his hand and Apparated them to Diagon Alley, where she walks into a nondescript building and takes him upstairs. Draco is so stunned by the sudden departure that he forgets to resist the kidnapping.

“Hello Valerian,” she greets the front desk worker. He looks surprised, but quickly recovers after glancing down at his nameplate.

“Hello, what can I do for you today?” Valerian replies, returning her smile. 

“We’d like to look at the listings with Madame Zhang, if she has an availability today?”

“...Well, this isn’t normally how we do things, but her schedule is rather light today. She has a one-hour opening in 45 minutes, if you’d like to reserve that?”

“Yes please. Come on Draco, that will give us enough time to go to the bank. I didn’t bring any pocket money.”

Silently, Draco wonders what the hell is going on. Why did Luna have to make an appointment for tea? Is this some highly specialized tea master? And why would she take him out for tea if she didn’t have any money?  _ He  _ certainly hadn’t taken any money with him. One does not impulsively run away from home with the clothes on one’s back prepared with liquid assets.

They arrive at Gringotts and Luna looks at Draco expectantly, and then he realizes that she wants  _ him  _ to pick up the tab.

He presents his finger for blood testing, since it’s not like he grabbed his vault key on his way out, and they clamber into the cart with a goblin named Sharpeye. Draco doesn’t remember the ride at all; in the blink of an eye, the cart is slowing outside the family vault. Sharpeye undoes the lock, ushering Draco and Luna inside. 

The Malfoy vault is obscenely huge. Draco hadn’t realized it when he was younger, but after a couple years with Nelma, he now knows how to check his biases and privilege. As such, he isn’t too bothered about spotting Luna a cup of tea while she helps him figure out what to do.

He picks up a couple Galleons, enough for even high tea at an incredibly high-end shop. When he turns back to Luna, though, he drops the coins in surprise. Luna has fished out a huge wide-mouthed money sack from who-knows-where and is giving him that expectant gaze again. “Well come on then, we have to make our 11:30 appointment with Madame Zhang. Go on, start shoveling.”

Somehow it’s impossible to disobey Luna even when she makes no sense. Draco picks up the shovel that is in every Gringotts vault for the purpose of moving large amounts of coin quickly.

He starts sweating after only a couple minutes. Gold is heavy, after all, and this is more physical exertion than he’s accomplished since his Quidditch days. Luna just continues holding the sack out expectantly though, so Draco keeps shoveling gold for the next twenty minutes. He has no idea how much money is stored away in it, but it’s enough that there is actually a noticeable chunk missing, albeit a small one. 

The cart is just pulling in at the top floor when Luna suddenly says, “Oh, this sack is too cumbersome after all. Sharpeye, could you take us to Windclaw please?”

Draco just stares at the exchange. Every money pouch is Charmed bottomless and featherlight, even a first year knows that. What is Luna talking about?

He follows anyway because at this point, what else is he going to do? He’s run away from home, after all.

When he is seated in front of Windclaw, though, he suddenly realizes that he’s in the main seat. “Luna, what—”

“Name?” Windclaw interrupts. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he responds reflexively.

“Finger.” Windclaw holds out a hand imperiously. Draco sets his hand in it and winces slightly at the prick. A drop of blood is sucked out of the tiny wound and spreads out over the parchment on the table. Lines bloom into a complex tree. Windclaw examines it closely.

“You already have an account with your family,” the goblin states.

“Yes?” Draco is so confused right now.

“Second account, then. Would you like to connect any other vaults or individuals?”

“No,” Luna says serenely. Windclaw ignores her, as any professional banker should.

“No?” Draco repeats. He doesn’t mean it as a question, but his voice rises at the end because he has  _ no idea what the hell is going on. _

“Very well.” Windclaw scribbles something on the parchment, then fishes around under the desk before emerging with a bronze key. “Your new vault number is 10314. Would you like to make an initial deposit?”

_ “What?” _ Draco exclaims, but Luna is already pushing the bag of gold at him. Helplessly, he offers it to the goblin, who weighs it in their hand and then sets it on the parchment. The bag disappears, presumably whisked away to Draco’s new vault (???). 

“Your starting balance is now 687,272 galleons. Since this is an individual vault and therefore not connected to your family ring, would you like to set up a card to withdraw directly from your vault on demand? It is a novel initiative Gringotts is offering to new account holders.”

“Ooh, Draco, you should try it out! The Blibbering Humdingers have a similar system in their colonies. It’s all rather fascinating, really. They use leaves with a particular pattern chewed into it as personal identifiers, and the leaf represents a promise of further reimbursement—”

“Yes, sure, I’ll take the card,” Draco babbles. He’ll gladly listen to Luna, but not now! First he wants to learn why she’s tricked him into setting up a new account, and for that he needs to get out of the building first.

Windclaw hands over a square of platinum hammered into a thin sheet decorated with intricate wires of gold laced over top. Draco scoops the card up in one hand and Luna’s hand in the other, then spirits her out of the bank.

“What was that?” he whispers harshly.

“Oh dear, look at the time. We’d best be getting to Madame Zhang’s,” Luna hums, neatly evading any sort of response to Draco’s question. She grabs his hand again and Apparates them directly to the building from earlier. Draco decides that if he ever needs to stop someone talking in future, he’ll just Side-Along Apparate them. The sensation is so jarring it would stop even Rita Skeeter from opening her mouth. Draco fares no better.

Luna takes them upstairs while Draco is recovering from the sudden jerk of Apparition. Valerian, clearly recognizing them, waves them through to the door behind him. 

Madame Zhang is seated behind a huge desk. She looks to be in her mid-30s, and Draco can’t help but admire how very put-together she looks. Her robes are of fine quality, and there’s not a hair out of place. It’s like looking at a younger, Chinese version of Professor McGonagall. 

She glances up when they enter and greets, “Hello there. I’m afraid names weren’t included in your appointment?”

“I’m Luna Lovegood and this is Draco Malfoy,” Luna replies. 

“Wonderful to meet you. My name is Chun-Cao Zhang, but you can call me Madame Cecilia or Madame Zhang. How can I help you today?”

“We’d like to look at some listings.” How can Luna sound so serene while making Draco’s day ever weirder? It’s a mystery. “Something midrange, affordable but classy. Nothing too fancy, but we’ve got a bit of budget.”

_ How expensive is this tea anyway…?  _

Madame Zhang nods thoughtfully. “Let me look in my files,” she says. “While you wait, let me pour you some tea.” A wave of her wand, and a blue and white porcelain tea set flies down from the top of a cabinet. “Caffeine or no?”

Wait, they’re not choosing the tea? Then what are these listings that Luna keeps talking about?

“No caffeine, please,” Luna responds.

Madame Zhang opens one of the tiny jars on the tea tray and spoons a mix of round dried buds and bright red somethings into the pot. She closes her eyes and concentrates, then conjures hot water into the pot. “Chrysanthemum lychee tea. Wait at least five minutes before pouring to allow for a proper brew. I will return in about fifteen minutes.” Her piece said, she stands and walks into a side room.

Draco pounces on the opportunity to interrogate his friend. “Luna, what in Merlin’s name is going on?”

Luna simply hums. “Draco, your Wrackspurts are awfully active right now. You should calm down a bit, we’re about to enjoy some truly excellent tea.”

“Yes, well, I fail to see how that relates to shoveling a small fortune out of my father’s Gringotts account, opening a new account for myself, and then sitting in a strange office where you’ve never been before!”

“Draco, are you listening to yourself? All of that led to us getting tea. And now here we are having some tea. Well, in five minutes we’ll have some. Hmm, I wonder if she has rock sugar here?” Luna turns away to inspect the little jars on the tea tray, leaving Draco to fume in his own head. 

A few minutes later, Luna pours him a cup of tea, plops two crystals of rock sugar into it, and pats his hand comfortingly. “It’ll be okay, Draco. Have some tea. Make sure to appreciate the fragrance before trying a sip.”

Draco does so, inhaling the floral steam, then casts a weak Cooling Charm. As he is taking a sip, Madame Zhang returns with several sheets of parchment. “Alright, I’ve got some suitable homes here, but I need to know: are you two looking for a couple’s home or something larger?”

The tea goes spewing out.

🍰🍰🍰

Draco falls dramatically onto the armchair in Luna’s house. “I cannot  _ believe  _ your first instinct on a friend coming to you after running away from home is to take him  _ househunting _ . Not to mention all that business about setting up an account.”

Luna simply raises an eyebrow, then starts taking off her robes. Draco squawks in protest and turns around. “Oh come on,” Luna scoffs. “Draco, we’re going to be flatmates by next week, don’t be so concerned about a little nudity. Actually, I think we as a society could benefit if we stopped being so concerned about a little nudity.”

“But that’s exactly my point!” Draco cries, hands settled firmly over his eyes so he won’t see anything untoward. “I don’t understand how we’ve got to the point where we’re going to be flatmates next week!”

“Well, on the third flat, you fell in love with the huge island in the open concept kitchen and asked Madame Zhang where to submit your down payment and if she would accept it right this instant, so that’s why we’re moving in next week,” Luna replied.

Draco’s cheeks redden a little in shame, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. All that  _ counter space. _ In good, solid granite! He would be willing to make even croissants on that counter, and that definitely means something because Draco  _ hates  _ puff pastry. Well, aside from Dragon, the duck-shaped puff pastry who is still living on Nelma’s shelf.

Still, Luna didn’t actually answer his question. “But  _ why  _ did you take me all over Diagon Alley and introduce me to Madame Zhang?” His curiosity is enough that he peeks through his fingers to observe Luna’s body language. To his relief, she is already fully dressed in her Grindylow pajamas.

Luna smiles gently when she sees him looking at her. She sits down in the armchair beside him and takes his hand. “I thought that was obvious. Draco, you came to me because you needed me after your parents disinherited you. I only did what made sense in that situation. Obviously, we had to get to the bank and set aside some money before your father completed the paperwork to revoke access to your family vaults, and then you needed to set up an individual account, though now that I think about it you’ll probably have to change the name on it since your father could legally take that away from you. And then you need a living space, so we went to Madame Zhang’s real estate office, and the tea really was phenomenal, wasn’t it? Her mother was a master tea brewer and Mama used to take me to visit them all the time. Madame Zhang herself was away at school at the time, so naturally she didn’t recognize me. And we’re living together because you don’t have a job yet, and living together is a better decision financially. Anyone would have done the same.”

Draco is speechless. He’s pretty sure that most people would  _ not, _ in fact, do the same. He’s not sure that anyone even thinks like Luna, but that’s part of what makes her so great. In the end, he can only say, “Thank you.”

🍰🍰🍰

Luna’s powers of doing as she pleases are not limited to leasing flats on a whim, it seems.

After one and a half months of being refused interviews at every location, Draco returns to their shared flat and aggressively begins to throw together ingredients for bread dough.

“No luck?” Luna asks sympathetically from her position on the floor against the wall, legs up and resting on the wall as she reads a book.

“Apparently if I were to work at an Apothecary, there would be a  _ concern  _ that latent magic in the Dark Mark on my arm will  _ contaminate  _ all the stores, so I was not  _ allowed _ to even set foot inside the shop. The owner spoke to me from his doorway.” Draco punches the dough down and folds it, feeling the gluten begin to develop beneath his fingers. He’s struggling not to let tears fall into the dough. That would be bad, almost as bad as the frustration that wells up within him and the anxiety that his past will always precede him. Why won’t anyone give him a chance? For the millionth time, he wishes that the soup kitchen where he aided Nelma had enough budget for one more paid worker.

“Oh Draco,” Luna sympathizes. “How many times is it now?”

“Too blasted many,” Draco grinds out. The dough is starting to come cleanly away from the sides of the bowl. He only has a little more therapeutic kneading before he’ll have to let the dough rest.

Luna hums a bit. “Well, why not be the one to reject others for once?”

Draco looks up sharply. “What? In what way am I in any position to be choosey?” 

Luna lets her legs fall to the ground with a thump and twists so she can look at him. “Isn’t it obvious? You have to be picky when choosing employees for your business. You have to make sure they’re a good fit, after all. Isn’t that what all these shops have been telling you?”

Draco hands stop their furious kneading, so shocked is he. “Luna, at what point did I start owning my own business? I feel as though I’ve missed something here.”

Her legs start kicking back and forth restlessly as she replies, “Oh, you didn’t mention it. I thought that was the logical next step though. You said yourself that you’ve hit your limit.”

“I mean, yes, but—okay, fine. What would this business involve, then?”

“How could I possibly know that? I’m not you,” Luna says sharply. “A person’s business is a very individual thing, you know.”

“You had no problem assuming that I’ll open my own business, but don’t have any input on what kind of business it will be?!” Draco throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, flinging tiny bits of dough onto the ceiling lights. Hm. He hopes a good  _ Scourgify  _ won’t damage the delicate glass fixtures. 

“No,” Luna answers blankly. “Why would I?” She rolls onto her back again and picks up her book.

Draco contemplates in silence as he covers the dough and leaves it to rest. His hands are still itching to make something, so he gets out the ingredients for a classic strawberry shortcake.

It isn’t until the cake pan is in the oven and he’s cutting strawberries into roses that it hits him. His desire to get paid for helping out Nelma. Luna telling him to open his own business. 

_ “I could open a cake shop!” _ Draco shouts.

Luna’s legs fall over again, this time to the other side. “That’s wonderful, Draco!” she enthuses. “Do you have any ideas in mind for the name of it?”

“I—”

“You should name it  _ Cake co. _ because it sounds like Draco.”

Draco stares at her wide, guileless eyes in disbelief. “You don’t want to give me ideas on what kind of business I should open because that would be infringing on my personal decisions, but you’re telling me to name my cake shop Cake co.?”

“Yes?” Luna looks at him weirdly. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“...No.”

🍰🍰🍰

In the end, Draco can’t think of a better name, so he applies for a business loan and finds a building near Wilde Wordes. It just seems right to open a bakery near a bookstore. Minh is receptive to the idea and agrees to let Draco put some flyers and a plate of tiny squares of cake to hand out on weekends as free samples. In return, they ask Draco to let them help decorate and stock some shelves with Wilde Wordes books for sale. They even hook Draco up with his bakery assistant, a nonbinary witch named Avani who frequently comes to spoken word nights at the bookstore and whom Draco later finds out happens to be Minh’s spouse.

Two months later, Draco’s grand opening takes place. It all seems to be progressing a little too fast, but Draco has his suspicions that Luna has some kind of Knight Bus-like magic that just makes things work out no matter how improbable the situation. He’s still not quite sure what she does for a living, but she has no trouble paying her share for their flat and is insistent on being allowed to help Draco, so he doesn’t question her. 

Business is rough at first as it is for any restaurant, but any kind of sweets shop tends to attract customers eventually. Draco makes sure to hide in the kitchen and let his assistant handle the front until he slips one day and a customer walks in. When they don’t blink an eye at him, he slowly begins to allow himself to be seen by the public. Fortunately, there aren’t many people from his Hogwarts year who venture to this particular magical avenue, and no one seems to want to spit on him.

Slowly, he gets into a routine. Changing weekly menus, monthly events, catering on occasion, visiting Nelma frequently with excess cakes and bread to donate. It’s all very clockwork and totally unremarkable.

Draco is just beginning to believe he can settle in when Harry Potter walks in the bakery door.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did math for this fic… thank goodness for people in the HP fandom who have done the hard math and figured out the weight of a Galleon so I only had to google average shoveling rate and weight:  
> 
> 
> * Shoveling rate: 10 scoops/minute
>   
> 
> * Weight recommended: 15 pounds (ignoring weight of shovel)  
> → 6.804 kg/scoop
>   
> 
> * Weight of a Galleon: 0.00198 kg 
>   
> 
> * 10 scoops/minute * 20 minutes * 6.804 kg/scoop ÷ 0.00198 kg = 687,272 Galleons after 20 minutes of shoveling


	4. Sourdough bread

“I don’t want to be an Auror.” 

Harry says it quietly, but Hermione still hears him amidst the din of unpacking noises. It’s a truly unholy amount of sound, but Harry wouldn’t give up Packing Charms for the world. Hey, he gave up his life to get rid of Voldemort, he’s allowed to make silly ultimatums like this.

Hermione slowly lowers her wand. She turns to scrutinize him, then shrugs and looks away. “Okay, then don’t be an Auror.”

Harry is gobsmacked. “That’s it? Don’t you think I ought to pursue my dreams or something?”

“You just said you don’t want to be one, ergo it’s not your dream. Actually, it could technically be a dream, just not a  _ good _ dream. Anyway, you saved the world and you’re independently wealthy, why should you care what anyone thinks?” She starts directing the Unpacking Charms again, and the dance of items to their correct places speeds up again.

Harry only spends a second pondering her words before coming to the conclusion that as usual, Hermione is right. Though… “I’m not independently wealthy! It’s not like I’m  _ Malfoy _ -rich or anything!”

“Don’t care,” Hermione retorts immediately. “You’ve got a vault full of wizard gold, what difference does it make if it’s more or less than the richest person in the world? Every time I need money I have to pay a conversion fee to change from pounds to Galleons.”

There’s really nothing Harry can say to that, so he sits in embarrassed silence and works on dusting the shelves and organizing the dishes.

🍰🍰🍰

With Hermione’s words echoing in his head, Harry sets up a charity organization so he can stave off some of the guilt he felt at her words. It still doesn’t feel like enough, so he starts looking for some kind of meaningful work he can do.

The terrifying ordeal of being known as Harry Potter™ in public literally gives him hives, so Harry quickly decides that he needs to find a position where he can disguise his face without being recognized. Hermione suggests becoming an Unspeakable, but Harry’s never particularly cared for research and the thought of devoting his entire lifestyle to  _ secret _ research seems incredibly unappealing. Besides, after realizing that he doesn’t want to be a wizard cop, Harry thought more deeply and came to the conclusion that the Ministry would be a terrible place to work after all they’ve put him through. Kingsley is clearly disappointed, but Harry stands firm on this. 

Unfortunately, it turns out that unless one works at the Ministry or opens their own business, it is hard to find a job. The Wizarding World is still stuck firmly 300 years in the past, and in the year 2000, specialized education is limited to apprenticeships. There’s no such thing as accredited wixen universities, so the process to becoming a Master in a subject is either finding an existing master who’s taking apprentices or to declare yourself a Master in a field and see if people ridicule or respect you. Harry doesn’t particularly want to become Master of anything (Master of Death is plenty enough, thanks muchly), nor does he want to be a shopkeeper. Frankly, he’s at a bit of a loss on how to move forward.

That’s when an ad in the Quibbler catches his eye:

_ Join the team at Styx!  _

_ Missing your loved ones beyond the veil? They miss you too! At Styx, we use new innovations in magic to ask your loved ones what lingering business they have in the mortal world. Our highly-trained couriers then personally deliver a package to you based on information gathered. Two-day shipping guaranteed for Supreme account holders! To join the team today, direct inquiries to founder Jerald Bezantine III.  _

Harry has an odd feeling, but it’s more interesting than anything he’s found thus far, so he summons some parchment and writes a quick letter. As he is beginning to stand from the breakfast table, rhythmic thumping begins to sound out from Hermione’s room where she and Ron had disappeared an hour ago. Harry hurriedly throws on his coat and Apparates out of the flat to the nearest public Owlery, letter in hand. 

🍰🍰🍰

It takes the sixth incredibly sentimental gift for Harry to realize that the whole operation is a sham.

Technically, nothing Bezantine wrote in the ad was technically a lie. Customers come in, talk to an operator, and after they leave, the operator casts a spell and asks a general question. No one answers, of course, because the dead who are not ghosts do not linger. That’s not a problem because another worker has already gotten to work stealthily compiling all possible information on the deceased. A package is made up and a letter in beautiful script full of heartfelt words is written—from a template, not even individualized—and then people with Harry’s job hand-deliver the parcel to the customer within two days, guaranteed.

Harry can’t believe it took him this long to notice. He blames his preoccupation with making sure his disguise as Evan Ptero stays firmly in place. Still, it’s rather hard to forgive himself for not realizing that all six baskets have held almost the exact same items for six different customers. Even cultural hegemony can’t explain that.

What really shakes him is that Harry can  _ feel _ that the dead are disgruntled with their defamation. It’s probably a Master of Death thing, but it’s not like that title came with a manual, so Harry isn’t stressing over not knowing what his discomfort over the gift boxes meant. Now that he’s realized that Styx is based on lies, Harry thinks he’s got the shivering feeling figured out. This Jerald Bezantine III is putting words in the mouths of the dead and gifts in their hands. Harry tries to pick up a seventh parcel and has to drop it immediately.

He can’t handle the itching feeling of the deceased’s displeasure anymore. Harry makes up his mind to compile concrete proof and then confront his boss with the evidence.

🍰🍰🍰

Hermione gapes at him in shock. “I’m sorry, did you just tell me you told your boss you knew his operation was a scam based on lies and _ he reacted by declaring you the boss and disappearing from the office in a puff of smoke?” _

“Yeah,” Harry grunts. He doesn’t move from the armchair where his neck is flopped back, staring at the ceiling in dismay. "I went to Gringotts—rather, I sent an owl to Gringotts since I’m still banned from there after the dragon incident—and it looks like Styx’s business bank account is now in my name. I don’t even know how he knew I was Harry Potter.”

“Probably has some seedy contacts who can dig up anything,” Hermione muttered. “A scammer like that wouldn’t let just anyone into the company.”

“That’s the thing,” Harry interjects. “There’s no one left at the company. All the staff disappeared too. Probably a linked Portkey or something. It’s just me now. Well, me and this business that’s apparently been evading taxes while scamming grieving war survivors.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs. “You really do have rotten luck sometimes. Do you want to file a lawsuit? I can’t represent you, I’m still only an apprentice, but I could probably talk to one of the senior barristers for you—”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Harry assures hastily, lifting his head up to make eye contact so he can assure Hermione of his sincerity. 

She really and truly does not need to take more on her plate. The first year after the war, Hermione had gone to Australia with the intent of casting a couple spells, groveling for forgiveness for a month or two, and then enjoying post-war life with her intact, alive parents. Instead, she spent the entirety of that first year in and out of St. Mungo’s trying to restore her parents’ memories, the second year trying to reconcile with them while also working on a book deal to secure her finances for this third year, where she is  _ still  _ reconciling and also apprenticing with a law firm that does good work but does not make enough money to pay more than the basic apprentice fee. In and around that, she’s also maintained friendships and relations with all her contacts in the Wizarding World, which have only grown since she published her memoirs of the war.

The point is, Hermione has the workload of her third year self but without the advantage of a Time Turner. Harry is loath to add his personal problems to that, and besides…

“I’m thinking about keeping the company.”

“What?” Hermione yelps. 

A half-smile plays at Harry’s lips. “It just feels… I need to do this.” Truthfully, the itching sensation under his skin didn’t simply disappear when Jerald Bezantine III did. Harry suspects it won’t until he’s righted some wrongs. He’s probably the closest gateway from the dead to the living, so it’s not like anyone else is better suited for the job.

🍰🍰🍰

It takes Harry a month to familiarize himself with his new business and then figure out how to interpret the nonverbal communications from the dead. They’re not so kind as to manifest before him and simply  _ tell  _ him what they want, after all.

The answer, it turns out, is to concentrate on that otherworldly prickling and then dip his wand into the magic sparking over his skin. He can then transfer that to a Pensieve and then directly view the last wishes of the dead. 

Given that he can’t actually choose who is contacting him, Harry has to abandon the former business model and convert it to a nonprofit on the advice of the accountant he hires. Customers don’t choose Styx because Styx chooses its own customers, and it’s not exactly sporting to foist a service on someone and then insist they pay for it. Harry doesn’t mind, though, because the Potter vaults truly contain more money than Harry knows what to do with. Besides, a couple of the deceased wish only to reveal their stash of savings that have no living kin to claim them, so Harry uses that money to fund the cost of the boxes and items he buys. He figures he’ll just fund his one-man business by himself temporarily until the requests from the dead dry up. After that, the company Styx can also dry up and he can go figure out something else to do.

🍰🍰🍰

Surprising absolutely no one, Harry ends up sticking with the job. It turns out that there are a lot of last wishes from the dead. Since Harry insists on delivering everything himself, he can only complete so many last wishes per day. 

After it had been clear that Harry and Styx are going to be sticking together for quite some time, Harry orders custom-made robes that are layers upon layers of black that completely obscure his identity. He also scours books on theater magic until he finds the spell Snape must have used to make his robes billow. Then, he casts a Voice Obscuring charm on the robes themselves as well as another spell from the theater magic book that makes the black fabric sparkle with a subtle dark light. The end result makes Harry look magnificently grand, a figure shrouded completely in darkness with robes like a starry night sky fluttering in a wind no one else can feel. Hermione raises an eyebrow at him when he walks out of his room with them on, but he ignores her interrogation. He’s allowed to be Extra if he wants to!

🍰🍰🍰

Today’s efforts have been fruitless. Although Harry has found that contacting the dead works best sometime between 12 and 5am, he’s still not always successful. Despite the war leaving Death with many unsatisfied souls, the dead are not truly meant to hang onto the living world with such fervor. Harry can only walk the streets and hope for the sensation of an unhappy soul catching onto him.

A grumble sounds from his stomach, and Harry realizes he’s been aimlessly wandering for longer than he’d thought. He glances around and notes that there’s a little bakery right down the street from him. The stone and wood aesthetic and chalkboard menu give off a charming atmosphere, and Harry’s nostalgia for Hogwarts rears its head. It’s barely past 5am, but the shop is clearly open. 

The bell above jingles merrily, in contrast to Harry’s mood as he walks in and makes direct eye contact with Draco bloody Malfoy at the counter.

The instant they see each other, Malfoy raises both hands, turns around, and walks out of the room. It’s a clear “I’m not dealing with this” if Harry’s ever seen one. Before he can open his mouth to question anything, an older Indian person is ushered out into the main room, obviously confused. Harry’s order is duly taken and he accepts two loaves of sourdough. The assistant then disappears back into the kitchen. With no one to answer his questions, Harry has no choice but to leave, although he resolves to come back to solve this mystery.

🍰🍰🍰

The next time, Harry comes in disguise (giant fluffy beard) but it doesn’t work and Malfoy makes to run away again.

Harry yells indignantly, “Wait, how could you tell?! This beard literally obscures all of my face.”

Malfoy replies without turning around. “It can’t disguise the smell of trouble though. Potter, I cannot begin to express how much I do not want a confrontation in my place of business.”

“Oh, so outside of your place of business is fine?!”

“You are  _ literally  _ being confrontational right now, Potter. If you’re going to be this way, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Step outside with me so we can talk and then I’ll leave.”

Malfoy looks from Harry’s face to the sparsely populated streets outside. The sun is just barely beginning to lighten the skies. “Fine,” he huffs. “But not out front. Come out back with me.”

Harry follows along in silence. When they are outdoors, he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “Well?”

“I don’t know, Potter, I’m not the one who walked into  _ your  _ place of business and started yelling up a ruckus for no reason. What do  _ you  _ want from  _ me?” _

Harry throws up his arms. “I dunno, maybe to know what you’re up to? Why are you working at a bakery?”

Malfoy snorts inelegantly. “Potter, I do not simply  _ work  _ at the bakery. I  _ am  _ the bakery.”

“You mean… it’s yours?”

“Stomach a little upset now that you know I made those two sourdough loaves from last time, hm? Well it’s too late. _ I don’t accept returns!” _

His shout reverberates around the empty alley. All at once, Harry realizes how ridiculous they’re being. Why is he picking a fight with Malfoy anyway? He sighs, wandlessly vanishing the enormous beard obscuring his face. “Look, you know what? I don’t actually want to fight either. I’m sorry I started yelling. Old habits die hard, and my baser instincts told me to pick a fight with you. It won’t happen again.” 

He waits a moment, but when Malfoy’s look of disbelief doesn’t change, Harry adds, “This is where you’re supposed to say you’re sorry too, and then we can agree on a truce.”

Malfoy stiffens at that. “Why the hell should I apologize when you’re the one who took offense at me for existing? I already apologized to you for war things, though it’s not like you wanted to  _ listen  _ to me. You just threw my wand at me and Apparated away after the trials.”

Harry blushes a bit. “I admit, that wasn’t my best moment—”

“No. You know what? I don’t have to deal with this. If you return in future, Avani will take your orders. They are more than qualified at handling  _ difficult  _ customers.”

His piece said, Malfoy turns on his heel and disappears back into the bakery. When Harry tries to follow, he finds that the door has been locked and he has to circle all the way around to enter through the front door. He buys a baguette and a box of scones and thinks it a shame that such delicious breads are made by Draco bloody Malfoy.

🍰🍰🍰

Three weeks later, Harry shows up again and asks Avani to call Draco out but not tell him who’s asking. They are suspicious, but Harry shows the parcel he’s holding that’s clearly addressed to “Young Master Draco”. 

“I’m here for business,” he explains. “Not to make trouble. But I know he won’t come out if he knows I’m out here, so can you just tell him to sit at this table?” 

They nod, and Harry sits at the table and sighs, then Disillusions himself. Only when Malfoy is seated directly across from him and tapping his fingers impatiently on the table does he end the Disillusionment. Before Malfoy can react, Harry sets the parcel on the table with a thunk.

“You have a package,” he states, and his eyes twitch with the desire to cry but he’s already cried all the tears he can handle and the only thing left inside him is raspy dregs of grief.

“Potter, what is this—”

“It’s what I do for work,” Harry cuts him off. “You have a package from a sender beyond the veil.”

“Who would possibly want to do that?” Malfoy’s sneering and his expression reads,  _ How is that even possible? _

Harry sucks in a breath, then exhales slowly. “Dobby the house elf.”


	5. Éclairs

The day after his first year at Hogwarts, a young Draco Malfoy sat fuming at the grand dining table at Malfoy Manor. It was past tea time and he was full of his favorite éclairs, yet Draco couldn’t shake off the grumps currently afflicting him.

How could Harry Potter be so against even associating with him? Father and Mother had always assured him that the Malfoy name meant something, that he would have no problems getting what he wanted because their ancestors are so awe-inspiring. Clearly, that was a load of Blast-Ended Skrewt droppings. If it were true, Harry Potter would have been falling over himself to be Draco’s friend.

Instead, the Boy Who Lived was also the Boy Who Couldn’t Stand Draco Malfoy’s Presence, as well as the Boy Who Was Awarded an Insane and Unprecedented Number of House Points and Thus Snatched the House Cup from Under Slytherin’s Noses. 

“Dobby!” Draco screeched. He couldn’t stand the injustice of having to bear such insults and even worse, having  _ no one to complain about it to _ . Blaise and Pansy had already threatened him, and Vince and Greg were good at listening but not at providing the righteous indignation that Draco so craved.

There was a  _ crack! _ and there Dobby was, cowering slightly before Draco. He sneered at the house elf, then declared, “Dobby, I want you to pretend to be Harry Potter.”

“H-Harry Potter, young master?”

“Yes, Harry Potter, don’t tell me you elven heathens don’t know the story of Harry Potter?” Draco was actually foaming a little at the mouth now. 

“The elves of Malfoy Manor is of course not knowing as much wise things as their masters, young master… we is very busy working, all the time...”

“What!” Draco squeaked. “That’s no excuse for ignorance! Now sit here and listen up!”

Dobby obeyed fearfully, sitting cross-legged on the floor before the young master. Draco proceeded to tell a highly embellished story of Harry Potter’s miraculous survival and the defeat of a Dark Lord who had asked too much of the Malfoy family. 

(As the Draco of 2001 recalls this memory, he reflects that Lucius’s absence in his son’s upbringing couldn’t be more apparent. Narcissa certainly had an opinion of the Dark Lord, but she is also helplessly in love with Lucius and would never go against anything he has to say in his presence. That didn’t stop her from letting her true feelings leak out to her son in his youth, though. A son who, it turned out, was alarmingly impressionable.)

Dobby absorbed the history lesson and the tales of the young master’s first year with wide-eyed wonder. When Draco was finished, he demanded, panting,  _ “Now _ do you understand? It is downright degrading to have to go through all this.”

“Dobby...sees...Dobby also has to go now, the Master is calling!” 

Oddly enough, as he was saying this, the house elf was looking shiftily from side to side. Only after he disappeared with a crack did Draco remember that his father had to go to Gringotts today for very important business and was not to be disturbed. Oh well, his father had probably just finished early.

Still, the loss of the one house elf willing to tolerate his complaints left Draco bored and frustrated. He sat back in his chair, heels kicking the chair legs with fervor fueled by boredom. His mother was out for tea, and none of his friends would listen to him. What else was there to do? 

Inspiration struck. He ran upstairs to his room and grabbed a quill and parchment. Sitting down at a desk in the library, Draco dipped his quill in the ink and began to write. 

As June passed into July and July passed into August, Draco wrote every day until a week before term was set to begin. He slammed down the quill and picked up the thick stack of parchments with satisfaction.

It was approximately 600 inches long and crafted entirely from Draco’s imagination, a masterpiece that gave Harry Potter the just desserts he deserved. 

(Perhaps, if someone else were to read it, they would find Harry Potter was simultaneously a hero and also the recipient of many embarrassments, as if the author couldn’t quite decide how he felt about the Boy Who Is the Protagonist of His Novel.)

It had been oddly therapeutic to come up with inconveniences and losses for Potter to encounter. Draco was particularly proud yet also scandalized at a particular section that contained a  _ fart joke. _ Mother would surely take away his latest broom if she knew about  _ that _ indecency. 

The front cover depicted a wobbly but decent rendition of Harry Potter, recognizable only by the shaggy mess on his head and the lightning bolt scar. Draco had also carefully printed the title of his masterpiece at the top:  _ Harry Potter and the Series of Unfortunate Events _ . The berk deserved such mishaps for all the turmoil he’d put Draco through! 

Draco was mightily looking forward to showing his work off to everyone at Hogwarts. Harry Potter would surely be a laughingstock in the face of his genius!

His plan melted into tar after going to Flourish and Blotts to purchase his Defense Against the Dark Arts books. 

Seeing the damage that timid Arthur Weasley managed to inflict on his father made Draco think twice about what kinds of hurt might come to him after insulting even the horrendously stuck-up hero attending Hogwarts. After Father Apparated the two of them home, Draco immediately took off running to his room. He grabbed the stack of parchment off his desk, fully intending to burn it in the kitchens, when he caught sight of the picture on the front.

He paused.

Draco had spent his entire summer on this project. Every time he was bored or lonely, he had turned to this stack of parchment and poured himself into the act of creating something. Some might even say it contained a bit of Draco’s soul. It would… it would hurt him to destroy the book, silly as it sounded. 

In a stroke of inspiration, Draco called for Dobby.

_ Crack! _

“Yes, young master?” Dobby asked trepidatiously. 

“Dobby, package this in a box and hide it somewhere for safekeeping. I may request you to return it to me in the future, so avoid damaging it. The first priority is to hide it, the second is not to damage it. Understood?”

“Yes, young master, right away!” Dobby squeaked. The stack of parchment changed hands from human to elf, and that was the last time he saw his masterpiece. By the end of his second year, Draco forgot all about his silly novel.

Until he was presented with it by the very subject of the novel himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One time I got really angry at a friend for some silly reason and wrote fanfic of them… it did make me feel better, actually, and I’m still good friends with this person! But I am never, ever telling them about it.


	6. Orange mousse cake

Malfoy holds the weighty box silently, his lips pursed, eyes distant, seemingly lost in thought.

Harry only notices this peripherally. His eyes are trained on the package that had Dobby so agitated in death that he reached out to Harry to deliver his last wish. It floors Harry that Malfoy’s request had occupied the elf’s mind so thoroughly. Regardless of what is in the box (and Harry never,  _ never _ asks what’s in the box. It’s not his business to probe for explanations), the fact remains that Dobby has been thinking of Malfoy since his death. Harry's always thought Dobby’s time in the Malfoy family to be incredibly traumatic, but maybe, just maybe, Draco Malfoy is not quite as much of a git as Harry thinks he is (and what would Lucius Malfoy say if he knew that it took a house elf’s opinion to budge Harry’s mind on that matter?).

A tiny part of him is also indignant that even with so many of his loved ones dead,  _ Malfoy _ has received a last request before Harry.

Abruptly, Malfoy looks up. “Did you know Dobby’s favorite food was oranges?”

“Er, no, I can’t say I did,” Harry answers. His stomach churns uncomfortably. Malfoy even knows what Dobby likes? He pays attention to things beyond the end of his nose? Has he always been like that or is this a new development? Wait, Dobby left when Malfoy was twelve, he had to have possessed this superpower since at least before that—

Malfoy stands up straight. “I’m going to get a piece of today’s orange mousse cake. It’s only right that we should celebrate Dobby’s sense of justice in life. And death.”

“...we?” Harry questions. 

“He was important to you, wasn't he? Why else would you have stolen him from my father? Actually, that was my father’s version of events, so who knows if that’s true... anyway, I’m not about to ask twice if you want to come, but it seemed polite to offer.” 

Malfoy turns as if to head into the kitchen, and Harry hurriedly shoves his chair back. “Wait, I’ll come with you! You’re right, he was important to me.” Internally, he adds,  _ And I want to see why you were important to him. _

Malfoy leads the way into the kitchen, past a stunned Avani who is clearly questioning why Malfoy is suddenly leading back the very person he’s been avoiding for several weeks.

A huge wooden counter dominates the center of the space. Half the surface is almost entirely covered with flour while the other half has mixing bowls and wooden spatulas strewn across it. Malfoy uses his wand to move several mixing bowls and create space for the box as well as the small orange mousse cake he Summons.

It’s a petite thing, only big enough to serve four. The bottom is made of pale yellow mousse while the upper layer is gelatin with sliced oranges placed throughout for a stunning visual effect. Malfoy divides the cake into four with an efficient Diffindo, then Levitates pieces onto four plates in front of himself, Harry, Avani (who still looks utterly bewildered), and the box Harry delivered. 

Malfoy then solemnly lifts the lid of the box and unwraps the contents. A stack of parchment is slowly revealed, and Harry cranes his neck to make out a scratchy ink depiction of...himself. Before he can comment, Malfoy raises Dobby’s cake plate to the sky. “Dobby! May you be ever freer in the eternal freedom of Death!” 

A puff of yellow-green magic suddenly rises from Harry’s skin at Malfoy’s words, swirling up to envelop the plate. Slowly, the cake lifts up and vanishes.

The three humans stare at the empty cake plate for a moment.

“Is that… supposed to happen?” Avani ventures. 

“I don’t know,” Harry and Draco answer in unison. 

They look at each other in shared annoyance, then Harry continues, “I’ve never seen anything like that happen, and trust me, I’ve seen a lot of things in this line of work.”

An awkward silence begins to creep insidiously into existence. Suddenly, Malfoy claps his hands together. “Well then, clearly Dobby got to have his cake.”

“Malfoy, that isn’t how it works—”

“Do you have a less baffling explanation, Potter? No? Then let’s all agree that my family’s former house elf was pleased upon receiving his favorite treat from the mortal realms. Once we’ve done that, we can enjoy this truly decadent cake I’ve made while I try not to think about what a wretched child I was.”

“I second that,” Avani agrees immediately. 

Harry has no choice but to nod. He picks up his fork when the others do and digs in.

The orange mousse cake is light, fluffy, and refreshing, so much so that it almost distracts Harry from the fact that he’s eating cake at 5 in the morning with Malfoy and his shop assistant. As they enjoy the sweet, Malfoy starts telling the story of the contents of the box Dobby granted him, and Harry can’t help but laugh. The thought of pissy twelve-year old Malfoy grumpy because no one would listen to him complain to the point of writing an epic about the subject of his ire is ridiculous. Harry can barely believe that at that time, Malfoy and co. were nasty solely because they were young kids and snotnosed rather than full-grown bigoted extremists and noseless. 

He can’t get over the part where Malfoy’s need to complain to someone led to Dobby’s idol worship of Harry. The way Malfoy tells it, Dobby had never heard of Harry until that summer. Malfoy even does an impression of himself at twelve years old, sitting with his legs looped over the armrests of a chair and waving a piece of cake on his fork imperiously. It makes Harry snort. It makes Harry laugh so hard he has to sit down. It makes Harry wonder what else he doesn’t know about Malfoy.

Harry never thought he’d enjoy fifteen minutes with Malfoy so much. Only fifteen minutes, because after that, Avani stares pointedly at the clock at the front of the kitchen and leaves without a word, prompting Malfoy to sigh and send the dishes to the sink to wash themselves. 

He turns to look at Harry expectantly, and before he can say anything Harry blurts, “Can I come back and see you again?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows crinkle like a bag of crisps. “Why would you want to?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “Er… in the spirit of Dobby?”

Malfoy gives him a narrow-eyed stare. “Do you want to say that again?”

“I mean, I just want to get to know you better!” Harry hurriedly amends. “I think I’ve learned more about you through Dobby’s last wish, and I… want the chance to learn who you are now, rather than who you were before. If that makes sense.” He heaves a huge breath. “I’m tired of fighting, and I don’t feel like there’s reason to continue a strained feud forever when you’ve served your sentence, apologized to me—or tried to, but I didn’t let you at the time—, and you’re clearly different from who I thought you were in Hogwarts. So. Er. Let’s start over?” Extending his hand, he greets, “Hi, I’m Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

Malfoy’s suspicious gaze has now turned incredulous. Harry’s hand is left hovering in midair for an uncomfortable twenty seconds before Malfoy’s hand slowly stretches out. His hand is warm. “Hello. My name is Draco Malfoy. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

🍰🍰🍰

It’s awkward at first, but Harry’s motives are genuine and once he gets an idea in his head he doesn’t let go of it easily. Harry starts a habit of going to the bakery every few days near closing hours, just after he’s woken up. He tried coming at the end of his work day around 5am, but it turns out that showing up to a business just before it opens means getting scolded a lot by the boss and his employee. So it’s always around 4pm that Harry grabs at least one of the half-off breads and any cake that’s left. He takes a seat, and after a while Malfoy will come out and take a seat with him, steal some of his bread, and chat. 

Turns out Malfoy is a lot funnier when he’s not being a complete arsehole. And also when there isn’t a power-hungry megalomaniac intent on committing genocide and murdering everyone Harry knows and loves. 

When Harry says as much, he immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, waiting for the inevitable awkward horror that will result. It’s happened often enough with Ron and Hermione, who don’t react well to the reminder of Voldemort even in humorous references. It’s not like Harry doesn’t have his own traumas, but his way of dealing with it is too different from theirs.

Malfoy surprises him by picking up the thought immediately as he absentmindedly tears the loaf of bread on the table to pieces. “Really inconvenient, that bastard was. So rude of him not to consider our budding social lives when he decided to force us all to torture and kill our classmates.”

Harry’s hand drops in shock. A second later, he responds, “I know, right? I don’t know why ol’ Mold-emort couldn’t respect societal standards when putting together his evil agenda. He absolutely ruined my romantic life! Which was actually a blessing in disguise—wait, I didn’t mean to say that—”

Malfoy’s eyes are gleaming now. “Oh? I smell a story here.  _ Do _ tell me more about this… romantic life of yours, Potter.”

Harry sighs gustily and takes a bite of chocolate cake. “Nonexistent. And honestly, I’m fine that way.”

“No Weasley in the wedding picture then? Either of them? Any of them?”

Harry’s nose wrinkles in horror. “ _ Ron?  _ Yuck, no! And Ginny and I didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

It’s the most open curiosity Malfoy’s ever shown about Harry, so much so that it shocks the real answer out of him. “Oh, I’m aromantic.”

_ “What?!” _ Malfoy’s half out of the chair, hands braced on the table as he leans over Harry. 

“Er, maybe it’s a Muggle thing? I haven’t heard any wix talking about it, at least, besides Luna who helped me figure it out—”

“No, I know what aromantic means. I mean,  _ you’re _ aro? You were hanging all over the girl Weasley in sixth year! And what about that business with Cho Chang the year before that!”

“What, like you’ve never realized in retrospect how much of what you did in school was because of societal pressure to feel a certain way?” Harry snipes. 

Malfoy sits abruptly. “...Okay, I concede your point.”

Harry waits. There’s definitely more to Malfoy’s reaction than he’s letting on.

“...and that wasn’t a reference to the Dark Lord either.”

More silence.

“Alright! Okay! My dating Pansy and Blaise may have been borne from others’ expectations. I’m aro too. And also ace.”

_ Ha! Just as suspected. _ Harry smirks victoriously. “Same.”

“Well. Nice.” 

“Yeah, nice.”

Silence again, now with an awkward tinge.

Malfoy cracks first. “So can we talk about how weird it was trying to date people and not understanding why they kept asking for more? More of  _ what,  _ exactly?”

Harry bursts out laughing because he immediately remembers a certain incident involving Ginny, Valentine’s Day, and hanging out the entire day with her just as any other Saturday: going on a walk, cooking dinner, and playing Exploding Snap after. When Ginny left, Harry slept easily thinking of the wonderfully casual day they spent together. She’d gone home, cried her eyes out while hurling hexes at some old robes until there was nothing left but ashes, and then broke up with him the next day. 

It’s not a story he ever expected to tell Malfoy, and certainly not something he thought might become a point of commonality between the two of them. 

When Harry looks back on these days, he remembers laughter and sunset rays and sweet mouthfuls of soft cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The orange mousse cake referenced](https://www.tastemade.com/videos/orange-mousse-cake)


	7. Strawberry cake

Draco doesn’t know how he ended up in this situation, but he can’t bring himself to regret it despite how his younger self would have hollered in horror.

He is estranged from his parents, only keeping the name Malfoy because his father couldn’t be bothered to spend the additional Galleons for that particular bit of legal disownment, which requires a crafty lawyer to navigate the loopholes.

His mother has only written him one letter in the ten months since, in which she advised him not to write to the Manor for “an indefinite period” to avoid worsening tensions. What Draco takes away from it is that she values her husband’s opinions over her son.

He’s rooming with Luna Lovegood who is equal parts brilliant and mad. Draco knows that she will always have his back, and he couldn’t be more grateful for her friendship. On the other hand, she also has a tendency to bring home abandoned creatures as well as very  _ not-abandoned _ girlfriends with whom she has loud sex (Draco has become an expert at casting Silencing Charms because Luna  _ always _ forgets).

He owns a cake shop that is becoming decently popular, especially because of his frequent collaborative events with the LGBTQIA+ bookstore next door. Minh has an annoying tendency to want to spend time with their spouse, which wouldn’t be a problem except that said spouse also happens to be Draco’s assistant at his cake shop. Secretly he doesn’t mind, is thrilled in fact that his friends have found such happiness with each other. But it wouldn’t do to let them  _ know _ that.

He volunteers regularly with Nelma, turning out meals for those who need help getting by. She handles the meals and gratefully lets Draco bake whatever he likes. Their time in the kitchen is loud and fun and punctuated with growls from Dragon the puff pastry duck. As they serve the food, Draco is reminded each time that he could so easily have been on the other side of the counter. It’s a good, constant reminder to check his privilege and give back with what he can.

Oddest of all, though, he has developed a close friendship with Harry Potter over the past nine months. Just one year ago, when his every day was filled with Nelma’s boisterous shouts and flour flying through the air, he would never have believed that his closest friend today would be Harry. Even after he opened Cake co., Draco would have bet if anyone, Luna would have become his best friend and confidante. Oftentimes, he finds himself still chatting with Harry several hours after the shop has closed, stomachs grumbling for  _ real  _ food instead of bread and cake.

There’s just something about Harry’s company. Draco feels comfortable with him, feels that Harry  _ understands _ him in a way that few do. It shouldn’t be so easy. The two of them had incredibly different upbringings and experiences at Hogwarts. What could they possibly have in common that would allow for such long talks?

The answer lies in stories.

Draco’s always loved stories since he was a child. One need only glance at the massive fictional narrative he wrote and asked Dobby to hide for him to realize that. His time in Nelma’s kitchen serving folk from all walks of life furthered that love by showing him that stories from people are just as good. Hearing tales of the past is like handing him a Muggle puzzle piece that he can hold up to the whole person. It’s rather fascinating to see how that piece then slots into what has made that person who they are today.

And Merlin, does Harry have stories.

At first, he only tells Draco stories about work. Some jilted lovers have tried to send rather nasty packages through Styx, which of course Harry can’t deliver until they’re rendered harmless. Other times, the stories are heartbreaking, and sometimes they’re so wild that Draco is out of his chair shouting by the conclusion. 

Gradually, Harry starts throwing in odd comments about his childhood. Eventually, he ends up spilling the whole thing. Draco is appalled at how very wrong he’d been in presuming how Harry was raised. It’s hardly a comparison, but Draco shares the pain of being disowned by his father and abandoned by his mother. Disowned, because having a son who refuses to compromise on his identity is worse than following a megalomaniac into genocide. The pain that being aro ace is what tore apart that familial bond when even torture and murder couldn’t is not easily expressed by words, and yet Harry understands Draco’s inarticulate attempt. 

That day is the first time Draco invites Harry to come home with him so they can keep talking in comfort rather than a closed cake shop. Luna’s out for the season hunting down Blibbering Humdingers in Sweden with one of her girlfriends, so it’s just Draco, Harry, two enormous mugs of steaming peppermint tea, and a box of Muggle “pizza” that Harry had insisted on ordering. 

They eat in awkward silence for a few minutes. Well, Draco is busy watching how Harry eats his slice of “pizza” and copying him, and then he’s busy figuring out how he can incorporate more pizza into his diet and menu  _ immediately, _ so that’s his excuse for the silence.

“Do you ever think how different we could’ve been without the whole No-nose-mort thing?” Harry asks suddenly. He is staring intently into the mug of tea in his hands as he spins it mindlessly.

Draco snorts. “You’re losing your touch. ‘No-nose-mort? I know you can do better than that.”

Harry laughs. “Answer the question, you berk.”

“Well, my answer to your question in particular is no. I don’t really dedicate a lot of thought to ‘what-might-have-beens’. It’s part of what Nelma taught me when I was doing my community service: decide on a path and then  _ don’t look back.” _

Harry purses his lips. “So are you saying I’m fixating on the past?”

“No, not necessarily, it’s more like—” Draco chews his lip in thought. “It’s more like, we’ve got this… this… ugh, I feel like such a Hufflepuff. This  _ friendship _ thing going on now, and it’s more than I ever could have expected to have, especially if I were the version of me who grew up rich and entitled who stepped onto the Hogwarts Express at eleven. I doubt  _ that _ me would have ever gotten to the point where I had to confront my privilege and learn to be the kind of person that could be friends with you. So. That’s what I’m saying.” He clears his throat, refusing to make eye contact with Harry. Merlin, that was so  _ embarrassing. _

“I… didn’t think of it like that,” Harry responds after a moment. “I guess with my work and everything, I’ve always been looking at the losses of the war, but I never thought about what might have been gained.”

“Exactly! I’m not saying that it was a good thing that hundreds of people were tortured and/or killed, but given that the war  _ did  _ happen, I find it more beneficial to think on what good has come out of it. For example, that law that Shacklebolt just pushed through? That would never have happened in a world where Evilface-mort didn’t start a war. It’s in vogue to support that kind of legislation now, and it’s socially unacceptable to imply that you think otherwise.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what  _ is _ that law about? I’ve seen a bunch of signs on Diagon for or against it, but they don’t seem to add up. How can voting yes on the law imply an elected Wizengamot but voting no equate to endorsing mass homelessness?”

Draco answers with glee, and the conversation moves on. Several times, he wonders when Harry is going to make his excuses and ask to leave, but to his surprise Draco is the one who has to make his apologies. Bakery hours do not allow for late-night chats, as much as he wants to continue talking to Harry. 

At the front door, he twists a corner of his robe nervously and then bites the wandtip. “Do you want to come over again sometime?”

“Sure,” Harry replies easily, as if all that tension had just been one-sided. “As much as it would have shocked thirteen-year old me, I had a lot of fun hanging out with you. Maybe I’ll even show you my cooking skills next time!”

“Harry Potter, you were just telling me that you blew up your and Granger’s kitchen because you couldn’t control your Flame Charm. Do  _ not _ blow up my kitchen or else I will have to set Luna on you and she will absolutely  _ destroy  _ you with her disappointed eyes.”

Harry raises his hands hastily. “I was just kidding! If you sic Luna on me I would probably die for real out of shame and self-humiliation. I’ll just pick up another pizza. This weekend?”

“Acceptable. See you around, Harry.” Draco closes the door with a smile. 

🍰🍰🍰

One day, Harry brings in his friends. Weasley looks the same as ever, but Granger looks haggard and worn. Draco’s already reaching for the chamomile and chocolate before he’s thought about  _ whom _ he’s about to serve. He pauses, old feelings attempting to rise up like acidic bile in his throat. On the one hand, it’s  _ Granger and Weasley.  _ On the other, Harry’s friends are his… not-enemies. Also, being nice to Granger can only help him in the long run. 

Mind made up, he lets his fingers close around the pot of chamomile and the chocolate cake tray.

When he brings over the pot of tea and cake tray, Weasley eyes him suspiciously. “Harry says you’re alright now, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Draco looks past Weasley and says directly to Harry, “Is your Weasley coming on to me? I can’t tell. Please tell him his affections are wasted on me.”

“Hey!” Weasley squawks. “I have a  _ girlfriend!”  _ He grabs Granger’s hand as if she can protect him from the hole he’s dug himself into.

Draco smirks widely. “Now Weasley, I know it’s hard to keep your eyes off me, but I assure you: my cake is better than any romance.”

“Was that a euphemism?” Granger asks, reluctant amusement evident in her eyes.

“No, just a simple truth. Now, please enjoy yourselves. I have other customers to attend to.” Draco swans away, ignoring Weasley’s spluttering.

🍰🍰🍰

In spite of his reservations about Harry’s friends, Draco gravitates over to their table more often than not as weeks go by. While Harry drops by every day at this point, Granger and Weasley only deign to join once a week, if that. Even so, before long he finds himself in a cautious acquaintanceship with Granger and, of all things, a  _ flirting _ battle with Weasley.

After the first couple instances of Draco poking fun at him, the red-haired menace had arrived at Cake co. with a single daisy and then recited a truly horrendous poem at Draco. Draco is begrudgingly impressed, not by the quality of Weasley’s wordcraft ( _ gods _ no), but by the tactical shift from defense to offense.

Draco, of course, can’t let that stand. The next time Weasley comes, Draco drops a few of Blaise’s patented pickup lines from third year on him. The strategy has its intended effect: Weasley takes 10,000 damage and dies from blood loss! That is, if blood loss is understood to mean rolling around on the ground laughing, face red and choked up from not being able to breathe. 

Harry and Granger simply step over him to enter the shop and calmly order slices of strawberry cake.

Draco gives himself a pat on the back for his mad flirting skills and thinks that will be the end of it. 

How naive of him. 

Weasley shows up next time with a jar of honey. “Malfoy!” he cries. “I went to great lengths and hardship to get this for you! I had to figure out Muggle money! I had to use the con-vay-or belt at the Tes-co! Our romance will bloom forever just like the flowers that gave their lives to become this jar of 99 pound honey!”

“Ron,  _ honestly _ , flowers don’t die to make honey. Not even the bees die, it’s just pollen that’s been processed by bee digestion.” Granger sounds like she usually does when lamenting the state of wixen education: so, so done.

“Also, it was 99 pence, not 99 pounds,” Harry mutters. He turns desperate eyes to Draco, as if hoping he’ll let this flirting battle die and spare Harry from having to endure more of these antics. Harry clearly doesn’t know Draco well enough.

“99 pence then! Please, oh ferrety subject of my desire, accept my affections!”

Draco purses his lips together. Oh, Weasley’s  _ good _ . He snatches the jar of honey from Weasley’s hand and whips into the kitchen without a word.

Harry follows after him a second later. Draco doesn’t look up from where he’s dumping flour into a bowl. “Ron and Hermione got a table. Listen, is he going too far? It’s only fun if everyone is having fun. I don’t want you to put up with Ron’s jokes if he’s making you uncomfortable—“

“Make no mistake, Potter,” Draco interrupts, using Harry’s last name for the first time in months. Carefully, he cuts a precise amount of butter into a hot pan and uses his wand to measure out some sugar and water. “This is not a conflict but a  _ war _ , and I shall  _ win it.” _

So saying, he overturns the entire jar of honey into the pan, smiling evilly in satisfaction. 

He looks to Harry, who has an expression on his face that is both fond and exasperated at the same time. “Now go make yourself useful and make sure Weasley doesn’t leave here for the next hour or so.”

“Whatever this is, just know that I have no part in it.” Harry strides out the door, but he can’t hide the twitching of the corners of his mouth. 

It’s all worth it an hour later when Draco flounces out of the kitchen door with a platter adorned with fresh honey cake gleaming with icing upon icing upon icing upon icing and a smiley face made of fresh oranges. “Weasley! Look upon the outcomes of your great efforts to woo me! I come bearing a honey cake that is as sweet as you yourself are. Please accept it or I will surely perish from your abandonment.”

Weasley looks a little green. Draco doesn’t blame him. There is so much sugar on the cake that it would give a four-year old nausea and tooth decay from 30 meters away. Weasley will have no choice but to accept it though. Draco’s counter-strategy is  _ perfect. _

Unfortunately, Granger foils Draco’s plans by Vanishing the excessive abundance of icing atop the cake. She snorts at the three looks of disbelief aimed her way. “Between watching your vomit-inducing star-crossed lovers act or getting cake, you know what I’m choosing.” A neat Diffindo later, she has a steaming slice on her plate. “Well?”

There really never should have been a question. In the war of Malfoy and Weasley, Granger will always win.

🍰🍰🍰

Something lies unsaid between Draco and Harry, a line of tension among the otherwise comfortable tether of friendship between them. He can feel it tightening when Harry leaves at the end of the day, all smile-y and loose in a way he never was at Hogwarts. Or maybe he was, but just not with Draco. Whatever the case, he’s reassured by the visual signs that Harry feels just as comfortable as he does. 

Still, there’s something different in this friendship from the one he shares with, say, Luna. He can’t explain it. It’s not like he wants to kiss  _ or worse  _ with Harry, and he doesn’t want to marry him or anything. But if given the choice… he could see himself living with Harry. 

Sharing a home, being able to go out of his room at any time and talk with Harry whenever he wants, spending evenings chatting over baking or Exploding Snap. Not sleeping in the same bed of course, because Draco is  _ not _ a cuddler… okay maybe  _ sometimes _ he is. He could have his own space though, and just enjoy the company of someone he considers his closest friend in the world, someone who just  _ gets _ him.

It causes him a small amount of anxiety and spiraling and wondering if he’s  _ really _ aromantic, because isn’t this how people describe romance? Did he throw away his whole family for what was ultimately a case of mistaken identity?  _ No _ , his mind rebels. It’s definitely not romantic attraction. He’s not in love with Harry. He just cares deeply for him...ARGH!

The breakdown only lasts about ten minutes because that’s how long it takes for Draco to remember he works next door to a queer bookstore. 

When he confesses his problems to Minh, they let out a huff of laughter. “Looks like you’ve found yourself a zucchini.”

“A what?”

“Ah, it’s a Muggle thing. Also, zucchini is the American word for courgette. Have you heard of the internet? You should try it sometime. Anyway, sounds like you’re saying you want a queerplatonic partnership.”

“A what?” Draco repeats.

“Give me a second.” Minh stands up and wanders into the stacks, then returns with a book. “This book isn’t perfect because the concept of queerplatonic is still developing, so I’ll have to print out some blog posts and bring them to you another day.”

“Are you quite certain you’re speaking English?” Draco asks. 

Minh chuckles wryly. “I may not always notice when others are speaking English or Vietnamese since I understand both, but I assure you that that was all English right there. Seriously, let me show you how to use a computer sometime, it’ll blow your mind. Anyway, the gist of it is a descriptor word for someone in between a friend and a romantic partner, though there’s all sorts of problems with that definition that I’m not going to get into. Whatever the case, I suggest you talk to your friend about it. Communication is vital whether you’ve got a romantic or platonic relationship.”

Draco accepts the book gingerly. “I…”

Minh waves a hand lazily at him. “Go on get out of here, you’ve got a journey of self-discovery to embark on.”

🍰🍰🍰

One month passes.

A month of Draco self-reflecting, of initiating conversations with Harry only to not finish them.

A month that ends with Harry cornering Draco in his own shop kitchen and demanding, “Just spit it out already Draco. What did I do? What do I have to do to apologize so you’ll stop avoiding whatever it is about me that is clearly bothering you?”

Draco looks to the side. “I…”

“Well?” Harry crosses his arms, his mouth set mulishly. 

Thirty days is hardly enough time for a man to figure out these words, but when Harry gets  _ that _ look on his face he’s not going to give up. Draco takes a huge breath, then says, “IthinkIwantyoutobemyqueerplatonicpartner.”

“Huh?”

Oh honestly, does Harry really expect him to say it again? Draco Conjures the book he’d got from Minh and opens it to the page where the printed blog posts are tucked in. “Read this. I think I want that. With you. I… I don’t have the right words for it, and you’ll find that even these resources don’t have the right words either.” 

Before Harry can say anything else, Draco flees very gracefully (no, he will not accept any comments at this time) to the main shop area.

🍰🍰🍰

Draco sees Harry wander out of the kitchen with a thoughtful look on his face. He turns away because  _ ye gods that was embarrassing and he completely flubbed it holy cannoli _ . Fortunately, he has an excuse in the shape of a steady line of customers, so Draco comfortably avoids looking in the direction of Harry’s table for the next thirty-odd minutes. His escapist tactic is shattered at that time by Avani gripping his arm and throwing him at Harry. 

“You’re on break,” they announce gruffly. 

“But—”

“No buts. Figure out whatever this is, you’re attracting more customers with your drama and now I have to deal with it.”

“I’m the boss, I can help see these customers—”

_ “Go.” _

Draco goes. Harry follows along behind him.

So now they’re back in the kitchen, and Draco wishes he had any of the courage he’d learnt with Nelma. Except that’s a different kind of courage than this one, the one that requires Draco to try and explain his feelings that are complicated in an indescribable way.

He opens his mouth, but Harry speaks first. “When did you start feeling this way?” 

Draco splutters. “Harry, I’m not in love with you, I—”

“Not what I asked, Draco.”

He deflates instantly. “I don’t know. I just noticed one day that I feel differently about you than I would Luna or Avani. Minh gave me the book a month ago, if that helps.”

Harry nods slowly. “And you said you… want this with me? You’re sure?”

“Y...yes.” Draco clears his throat. “Yes. I might not know how to describe it, but what I do know is if given the choice to exist with or without you, I’d definitely choose with you.” He has to physically cover his mouth with his hand then, because if he doesn’t he’ll start blabbering more. 

About how it’s different from being best friends, because he’s had best friends before, but the harmony he shares with Harry is just  _ different _ . 

About how he knows it’s not romance because the idea of romance still makes his head spin and not in a pleasant way. 

About how he doesn’t need Harry to feel the same way because there are so many different ways of being aromantic and loving others, but by all the magic in the world, he would be so, so happy if Harry  _ does _ feel the same way. 

And then Harry reaches forward and pries Draco’s hand from his mouth. “I would too. I can’t explain it. Ron and Hermione are my best friends, but you’re also my best friend. I don’t want to say you’re  _ more _ than my friend, because it’s not a competition. But in a way, it’s like you’re my best friend that I want to live with and be my partner.”

Draco’s eyes are so wide he could probably fit one of his cakes on them if they were plates. “You get it? And you… want that too? You want me to be your partner, not in a romantic sense or whatever—” here, Draco inserts air quotes and also rolls his eyes for good measure “—but being committed partners no matter what anyone else thinks?”

“I think I do, yeah. I mean, I haven’t had a month to think on it like you have.” Harry rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

Draco grabs that hand and holds it securely. Harry squeezes back. “I can wait for you to be sure. If it’s for you, I can wait.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The law I made up and resulting controversy, if anyone cares:  
> The law calls for a greater proportion of the legislative/governing body of the wixen government (i.e., the Wizengamot) to be voted in rather than inherited seats. The opposition signs are implying that more elected representatives in the current political climate would lead to more Muggleborns in government, and when people think Muggleborn these days they usually think of Hermione Granger and her fourth year campaign to end house-elf contracts, which would lead to the destitution of homes that rely heavily on house elves (read: mostly Pureblood homes), leading to mass homelessness. Does it make sense? Probably not. Does it have any real bearing to this story? Absolutely not.
> 
> [Honey cake recipe](https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/honeycake_67599)
> 
> Minh’s description of queerplatonic is a bit anachronistic because the history of the word queerplatonic is more from the 2010s rather than the 2000s when this story takes place. Maybe Minh just has a prophetic internet connection ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I really wanted to work in Zucchini Bread as a title as a reference to how people sometimes refer to their queerplatonic partner as “zucchini”, but then I got stuck in a spiral of how Brits use courgette instead of zucchini, so. No zucchini bread. :( Actually, now that I'm writing this note, I realize that Draco could feasibly use the word "zucchini" since he learned how to cook under Nelma, who's American, but that's still kind of a stretch.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


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